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Part 18 : Shadow Rising Backwards
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He glanced up from the tepid omelet congealing on a chipped porcelain plate as she slid into the booth opposite him.
"Please tell me you're not going to eat that," she accused.
"I got here early,"he explained. "The waitress thought I'd been stood up. The average southern roadside cafe, it seems, lives up to its stereotype."
"Yeah. But Kentucky? Not actually all that friendly."
Sark watched her from behind impenetrable sunglasses. She was nervous, or uneasy at least, eager to get down to business but desperate to avoid the subject.
"Any tails?" he asked briskly, leaning back against the creased leather bench.
"No. All clear." She nodded to herself, and pulled her knees up to her chest.
"Calm down, Sydney. You're alright," he said quietly.
She let out a shuddering laugh, and rolled her shoulders in defeat.
"So," she asked finally, "why Dad?"
"You know why," he answered swiftly. "To hurt you."
"OK, smart ass. Why hurt me?" she snapped.
He grinned. "There's my girl."
"Julian," she warned.
"It's the prophecy, Sydney. Irina believes in nothing so blindly she does as in Milo Rambaldi."
"What prophecy? There's another one?"
"Oh, yes. He made hundreds. Unfortunately for you, yours was the destiny he took most interest in." Sark took a drink of the scalding black coffee and instantly regretted it.
"The Notebook, right? I tried to get a hold of it, as you know, but I never found it. What's in it?"
He shook his head slightly. "I never read it in detail. Irina didn't say why she wanted it so I didn't bother. I just assumed she wanted to screw over the CIA. Truthfully, who wouldn't?"
"I appreciate that, Julian, I really do," she said sarcastically.
"Nothing personal. You're not CIA anymore," he corrected. "Now don't interrupt."
She kicked him under the table.
"Focus, Sydney. The prophecy. From what I gathered, it's a biography on your entire life. So far, everything has come true - everything you've ever done is detailed in the Notebook. Myself included," he added. "Rambaldi dictates a time of decision, where you can disappear from this life or become the dominating player in every aspect of the espionage world. Someone to rival Irina herself. Obviously, that exact event happened nearly a week ago, when you were effecting a lifestyle change that would take you out of the game permanently. Irina would not allow that to happen. Twisted though it is, she does love you, Sydney. In her mind she was helping you on your way to greatness by forcing your hand. It was predetermined that you would be ruler of this little world you so despise."
"Going with the belief that all this shit is true, why bother killing Dad? It was already set in stone that I would never leave with Eric."
"Because throughout Rambaldi insists that it can all be changed," Sark explained. "He wanted you to escape. In his Notebook he describes you as almost immortal, Sydney, but he always insists that it can all be changed. It just slipped his mind as to how."
"So it was Eric? Irina thought Rambaldi meant Eric could change the prophecy?" Sydney wondered, incredulous.
"Perhaps. I can't speak for Irina, darling, and I really never want to," Sark admitted. "Your mother killed her husband so that you wouldn't pass up your destiny. Her reasons are her own."
"But that still doesn't answer anything. Why would killing Dad stop me from leaving the CIA?" she growled, gauging the scratched tabletop with her fingernails. "Why can't I just stop by on my way to Maui and empty a clip into her gut? I don't get it, Julian!"
Sark exhaled slowly, hesitating before answering. "Irina Derevko has many enemies, Sydney. She's now the only leader of the six Covenant cells, as well as what's left of her own organization, which I myself helped her build. But she also has allies. People owe her favors. People will be afraid of her even after she's dead. They'll avenge her death if only for social standing."
Questions, tense and immediate, jumped to her mouth, but she kept quiet. Tears of frustration clouded her eyes but she remained silent.
"If you kill Irina you can never be free. If you avenge your father you will need protection of every kind, because other organization leaders will be too terrified to risk leaving you alive," Sark continued in a low monotone, glancing around the perimeters of the deserted 24-hour diner. "Killing Irina will prove that you are the threat you were always rumored to be. Others have read the Notebook. In time everyone will know your potential. You'll be caught up in this game deeper than ever, and this time you can never escape."
"Then why kill Dad at all, if I'll only die for revenge against Irina? I understand wanting to keep it all in the family, but it doesn't make sense!" she argued.
"Because you won't die. Not with me by your side," Sark said confidently. "She knows I won't let you go in blind. She knows I lo-" He stumbled to an abrupt halt. "She knows we're involved," he continued carefully. "If you murder her without covering all your bases, I'm a target by proxy. She taught me well enough to never act when unprepared."
Those weren't his reasons and they both saw it, but today Sydney lacked to courage to call his bluff.
Sydney didn't reply at once, looking out the unwashed window at the empty parking lot beyond. She could feel Sark's eyes, hidden behind dark glasses, staring at her with expectant intensity.
"So, what? How do we keep ourselves from getting killed? Let alone, find Irina?" she said, her voice thick and rusted.
Sark reached into his jacket, retrieving a blood-smattered disk and holding it up for her to see.
"We build our own organization," he stated.
Chicago. The disk containing the coordinates of several weapon stockpiles belonging to almost every high-powered arms-dealing syndicate in the world. She stared at it with surprise and loathing.
"You had the foresight to beat the crap out of me for that disk, just in case I needed to build my own criminal empire?" she asked sardonically.
"Well, it was more a matter of pride, originally," he conceded. "It's rather simple, really. We use this to steal millions of dollars worth of weaponry, then sell it off for a tidy profit. We do some dirty work for people wanting to keep their hands clean, hire a couple incompetent desk jockeys and call it a business. From there, I assure you, darling, everyone worth their inarticulate bodyguards will think twice about crossing us."
"That'll take a while," Sydney noted. "And besides, won't that just piss everybody off even more?"
"Of course. But you must realize, I'm one of the most renowned freelance operatives since Jack Bristow retired from the field. And you - well, you effectively bitch-slapped every major organization in your first year at SD- 6 alone. Together..."
"Bonnie and Clyde go 20th Century," she summarized.
"Quite."
The faint smile she wore disappeared, and she returned to memorizing the view of the parking lot. The decision was too final, too fatal, for her to stand to comprehend.
"One other thing," Sark said. She turned back to him and he'd have done anything to save her. "Everyone has to know for this to work. Everyone involved has to know that we mean business. Including," she realized even as he said it, "The CIA."
It hit Sydney hard. Pain she'd ignored since her father's funeral became all too real, too severe to even cry. For two years, almost three now, she'd survived only with the hope of returning home. She sat frozen, systematically locking off memories that risked triggering tears and desolation. Sark didn't dare touch her.
"I can't protect you, Sydney," he said mutedly after a long moment. "I can't give you a home, I can't give you safety. I'd offer you my heart but it isn't worth giving, I'm afraid." He paused, would normally have laughed, smirked, run, but he never could hide from her, "All I can give you is the assurance that I will never betray you," he whispered, "and I will never stop wanting you."
Sydney fought the urge to knock those damned sunglasses off his face. His eyes never showed her anything, anyway. He was just as hurt, just as badly scarred as she was; he simply hid it better.
Without hesitation she reached across the table and clasped both his hands in hers - squeezed tightly and refused to let go. Sark observed the gesture with a jarred, detached expression of surprise.
"Ditto," she said
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I never saw a smile like that -
Such megawatt charm.
I've never been on trial like that
Never until now.
Or been helpless for a while like that;
Feels different, maybe. Painless.
I never danced in style like that
'cause you were never in my arms.
I never walked a mile like that -
So I guess I'll stick around.
- excerpt taken from "Malfunction", a poem by Wes Morlen
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"Hey, buddy. What happened last night?"
Right. Sunday Hockeyfest. He'd forgotten.
"Oh, hi, Mike. Sorry I forgot to call you. Something came up." Eric hit the 'enter' key with unnecessary force.
Vaughn stood warily beside the desk, watching closely as his best friend waged war with the memo he was typing.
"Anything else?" Eric snapped irritably.
"C'mon, Eric. It's been over a month. She's gone," Vaughn said quietly.
"The Covenant cells are becoming active again. I was helping Marshall decipher some intercepted transmissions. But thanks for the vote of confidence," he answered shortly.
"I loved her too, man. You know that,"
Without warning Eric let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Yeah, Mike, I know. You loved her. But guess what?" He viciously slammed closed the report stats he'd been reviewing. "You've got your wife, Mike. You had your chance with Syd and you fucked it up. But I didn't!"
Before Vaughn could do anything but display his trademark puzzled frown, Eric brushed past him, going nowhere in particular except the hell away from Sydney's past boy-toy. Vaughn considered going after him. Considered advising Jack Daniels and a syringe, his relief of choice after losing Sydney those wretched years ago. Didn't because he knew Eric could never forget her even if he wanted to.
It'd been a little over a month since Sydney's third disappearance. Eric wasn't and would never fully recover. He'd done everything right and she'd chosen Sark.
Bitter? Yeah. His biggest problem was that he'd preemptively forgiven her.
"Did you talk to Barnett?" Vaughn called after him, falling into step on the way to Dixon's office.
"Yeah. Thanks for the recommendation, too." Eric kept his gaze level, maneuvering the familiar halls blindly.
"What'd she say?" Vaughn persisted.
Eric halted abruptly, rounded on his best friend, struggled to contain the explosive current of helplessness that was slowly strangling him. "She said the same damn thing everybody's been telling me since the first time Sydney went AWOL three years ago. She's gone. Nobody knows where she is or if she's even alive. I get it. Kudos, Mike, you figured it out. I miss her."
He turned to keep walking but Vaughn restrained him by grabbing his arm. "You were friends, Eric. I know. But you've got to let it go. I mean, it's not like you were - I mean, - you weren't... were you?"
Eric let out a sigh, long and hollow and at once that shuddering laughter returned. "What does it matter? Syd trusted me, Mike. You don't understand. You all think you do, but you don't. She trusted me. She's out there somewhere and I can't help her." He let out a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a howl. "And it's killing me."
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All eyes were on him as he entered. He was used to that by now.
"Agent Weiss," Dixon began instantly, "did you keep your appointment with -"
"Yep," Weiss interrupted, and slid into his seat.
The Conference room didn't fit anymore; It was too large, too sterile. Two empty chairs side-by-side spoke something too significant to acknowledge.
"Good," Dixon said briskly. "Listen up, everybody."
Everybody. It was just the five of them now, Marshall, Dixon, Weiss and the Vaughns. Without the Bristows they were no longer a group. Now they were merely co-workers.
"There's a new player in town. Call themselves the Medici. They've been causing quite a stir, stealing billions worth of arms and explosives without any hint of where they'll strike. Our contacts have reported that they've got everyone spooked - including the Covenant." Dixon gestured to the screen beside him, which ran a grainy security tape of a nameless, grey- walled facility. "They strike fast and brutal. Last night they raided a CIA storage facility. The security network went down for 2.47 minutes, and when the lights came back up a shipment of high-grade sniper rifles and 14 pounds of raw C4 were found missing. 7 guards were down on the scene." He paused, took on a look of solemn, disbelieving anger. The picture on the screen jumped, cut to black. Marshall obediently fast-forwarded the tape. A moment later it flickered back to life.
First there was only smoke, vague forms of unconscious guards barely visible. Soon twin shapes walked down the hallway, each carrying a heavy, locked aluminum safe-case.
"What am I seeing here?" Vaughn demanded. "What - what is this?"
Lauren grabbed hold of his hand.
Eric, from lack of other options, began laughing.
Onscreen, Sark holstered his Glock and moved his hand to rest easily on Sydney's hip. Alerted, she glanced upward, straight at the security camera. Sark's lips moved, and her face steeled. She reached up and blew a kiss at the camera.
They stepped over the beaten guards and disappeared.
"They've run analysis," Dixon continued wearily. "It came back a positive ID. It's her. She's working with Sark."
Unanimously they looked to Eric. He sat clutching his pen with an indecipherable expression on his face.
"I will ask this once. Did any of you know about her alliance with Mr. Sark?" Dixon gritted.
Unblinking, unbelieving, they watched Eric.
"Could anybody read what Sark said?" he asked, breaking the extended silence.
"It looked like -" Vaughn started, then faltered. "It looked like he said 'No going back'."
"Body language? Expressions? Come on, people, you're the best we've got. Give me something to go on here," Dixon appealed.
"Sydney's always been easy to read," Vaughn said quietly. "You could always tell what she was feeling from the look in her eyes. But now - I don't know, she's cold. Desolate. Like she just lost her best friend."
Bad metaphor. Bad, bad metaphor.
"But Sark - " Vaughn wanted to cry, or vomit, and it showed. "He never gave off much, but here - hell, just look at him. He's practically wearing a neon sign on his back."
"Get to the point, Agent Vaughn,"Dixon snapped.
He leaned back in his chair, voice cracking as he gestured toward the screen. "Look at the way he's walking. The smirk. The way he's touching her. He looks like a kid locked in a candy store. He looks like a guy who's getting lucky every night of the week." He spoke increasingly louder, harsher. "He looks like he's exactly where he wants to be and like he always knew he'd get there."
"But she's just faking it, right? She's working from the inside again, like at SD-6," Marshall argued quickly and somewhat desperately. "I mean, she wouldn't do something like this without a reason, right? She's - I mean, you know, she's - well, Sydney!"
"If she is, she's in way over her head," Dixon noted. "We have to work under the assumption that Sydney has turned into a traitor to the United States."
Again, that unbearable quiet. Jack would have cautioned foolhardiness, Sydney would have insisted on decisive action. Without them there was silence.
"I didn't know her very well," Lauren hazarded, "but everything I've ever seen or heard about her contradicts this. Sydney Bristow was true to a fault. She wouldn't betray us."
"She would," Eric said instantly, drawing surprise and contempt from the others. "If she had to. If she was hurt badly enough. She would."
"But with Sark? How the hell did she even hook up with that bastard?" demanded Vaughn.
"He probably heard about Jack," Marshall said instantly.
"He could have kidnapped her after the funeral," Eric added a little too forcefully.
"We can speculate all we want, but it doesn't change facts." Dixon sat down heavily, saddened and tired and for an moment showing his age. "I love Sydney Bristow dearly. She was like a daughter to me. And I know how dear she is to everyone seated in this room. But until further notice, each and every one of you is to treat her as a threat. If you see her you have orders to disarm, using force if necessary." He didn't hesitate before adding, "And if you see Mr. Sark, shoot first and ask questions later. Understood?"
Eric had known he'd lost her. Just not like this.