Author's Notes : First of all, I'd like to sincerely apologize for making everyone feel squeamish and fearful for their fingernails. It was not my intention.
… Well, all right. It was. But sorry nonetheless. (Is "nonetheless" one word? It isn't, is it? Becca, help!!)
I of course want to thank a lot of people, most of whom I'll probably forget while typing this. Thank you, ziggystar (worst fear, huh? Mine is drowning in a vat of gummy worms. Dunno why, just seems like a lousy way to die, non?), cindymusiclover (you were the only one who guessed Vaughn was evil by chapter 21! You go, girl! (you are a girl – right? Please say I didn't just insult you…)), presiosa (thanks for the compliment – and don't worry, someone will slap Irina very soon), Sydney47 (I. Love. You.), Kim the Manipulative Little Mo (Love, love, love the name. That is all), Stoic (upon your advice, I belatedly looked up the definition of 'genocide'. Gotta say, I think I was a happier person before I knew that... But still, I really appreciate you letting me know!), hannahbanana (I'm a rather morbid person, I'm afraid. Most people don't actually congrgatulate me on that, so thanks. Cute name, btw!), Chaosti (you're quite faithful in your reviews, don't think I haven't noticed! I'm always eternally grateful to hear frrom you – thank you so very much!), mystripedskirt (thanks for hanging in so long with this story. Only 2 more chapters to go! I'm forever indebted to you for all your comments. They really do mean the world to me!), and to anybody I inevitably forgot : thank you again. Sobs I love you guys!
God, I love reviews.
Cheers,
Ren
Aargh! I forgot Becca! How could I forget Becca?!?!?!
Eh-hem. Thanks, Bec. You drastically rock.

-
Part 23 : Lucifer
-

Left, right, left. He walked steadily back and forth, nervously crossing and uncrossing his arms, inhaling and exhaling, anxious and dreading.

Headlights shone through the entrance tunnel and Vaughn pulled up beside Eric's car in the otherwise empty parking garage.

"What's the matter? You said it was urgent," Vaughn exclaimed, swinging open the door, out of breath.

Eric sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I – eh, wanted a word."

"Is this about Sydney?" Vaughn guessed, frowning tiredly.

"In a way," Eric said.

"You gotta move on, man. Let her go. This isn't healthy, Eric." Vaughn patted him on the shoulder, and Eric glanced impatiently at his watch, wondering what was taking Sark so long.

"So what's this about?"

"What?"

"You called me in the middle of the night asking me to meet you across town," Vaughn grunted, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Eric assured, scanning the entrance for any signs of back-up.

"Nothing? It didn't sound like a 'nothing' over the phone. C'mon, Eric, talk to me."

Eric turned his gaze at Vaughn, realizing that, yes, truly, he was required to make small talk with the man he was about to help torture.

He'd really gotten to hate irony.

"I – uhm," Oh, shit. "I had a dream."

"A dream."

Eric found he couldn't begrudge Vaughn his skeptical tone. "Yeah. A bad one. There was… blood. A lot of it. In a bathtub," he continued randomly.

"Blood. Okay," Vaughn nodded.

"Yeah. And – eh – Sydney was there. She had, uhm… a knife, right. A big mother of a knife," Eric said wildly.

"What was she doing?" Vaughn asked, worried. "She… umm…" Where the hell was Sark? "She was… ahh… stabbing a Smurf."

"A Smurf?" he repeated incredulously.

A Smurf?!, Eric wondered hysterically.

"Yeah. Papa Smurf. You know, the one with the beard and the hat and no shirt. She was stabbing him."

The object here was to avoid suspicion, Eric thought belatedly. "His blood was blue," he added faintly. "You dreamed Sydney was stabbing a Smurf next to a bathtub full of blue blood," Vaughn stated.

"No, the bathtub was full of regular blood. I just thought it interesting, you know, that Smurf's bleed blue," he explained weakly.

"At least in your dreams they do."

"Right."

"Okay."

The two men fell silent, both uncomfortable for different reasons. Vaughn opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it.

"It was very traumatizing," Eric offered.

Thankfully another set of headlights appeared in the entrance, tires squealing recklessly as a black Mercedes jerked to a stop, boxing Vaughn's car between the curb and Eric's BMW. Without switching off the engine Sark stepped out, dressed in mandatory black with sunglasses again masking his eyes.

Vaughn was justifiably confused. "Sark... What the hell is –"

Forgetting etiquette, Sark ignored him and withdrew the handgun hidden in his sleeve, placing a quick bullet in Vaughn's kneecap. The gunshot echoed through the empty garage.

Screaming in shock and searing pain Vaughn fell heavily to the pavement. Dark blood sprayed against Eric, inches away. "You're late," he told Sark.

"I had to retrieve something," Sark explained shortly, grabbing Vaughn by the collar and dragging him over to a cement pillar. "I trust you kept him occupied."

"Oh, sure," Eric attested, "We talked about… stuff."

"Weiss – ahh, damnit. What's going on?" Vaughn gasped, clutching his leg in torment.

Without answer Sark seized hold of his arms, twisting them back to handcuff his wrists behind the pillar, securing him there.

"Was that really necessary?" Eric complained, gesturing to the trail of blood Vaughn had left on the cement.

"Not really," Sark replied indifferently, "but it was very therapeutic."

"We don't even know if it's true, Sark. You could be completely wrong about Mike," Eric insisted.

"Eric - ahh, God," Vaughn gritted in pain, "What are you doing? You're working for Sark?"

"No," Eric said tersely, "This is more pro bono work. Sorry in advance if Sark's wrong about you."

Sark crouched beside Vaughn, grabbing a fistful of his hair and slamming Vaughn's head against the cement pillar. "Sydney. Tall brunette, absurdly attractive, once stuck a knife through your ribs. Where might I find her?" he asked conversationally.

"What are you talking about?" Vaughn groaned.

"You're Covenant," Sark hissed. "Was it Ockley, too? Did they lock you down in that little room and convincec you that you were their pawn? Did they do to you in less than a month what it took almost a year to do to Sydney?"

Vaughn disowned any knowledge of Sydney's whereabouts, contradicting in breathless tones the accusations Sark threw at him. It quickly escalated into a screaming match, Sark filled with white fury and Vaughn with adamant denial. Eric turned away, sickened.

"Where is she?" Sark demanded.

"I don't know! I don't know what the fuck you're talking about! Eric - what -" Vaughn sputtered helplessly.

Sark pounded his fist against Vaughn's face. A sickening crack and a spurt of blood announced a broken nose.

"Stop," Eric said suddenly. He faced them again, walking over to where Vaughn was chained to the pillar and Sark stood with his hand smeared in blood. Eric knelt beside Vaughn. "Give us a minute," he told Sark.

For a moment Sark didn't move, staring coldly at Vaughn. Finally, he grunted with disgust and walked over to the Mercedes, out of hearing range.

"What are you doing, Eric?" Vaughn asked instantly, blinking slowly at his friend.

"Sark hacked into the Covenant mainframe a while ago. He thinks you might be working for them," Eric explained quietly.

Vaughn gave out a snorting laugh, resting his head against the concrete behind him. "I love Sydney. You know that."

"I know you did," Eric said bluntly. "I know that the real Mike would want me to do anything within my power to ensure Sydney's safety." He grabbed hold of Vaughn's knee, digging his thumb into the bullet hole. Vaughn cried out in surprised agony. "I know that resisting torture was never your strong point. I know that Irina Derevko will stop at nothing to forward her plans for her daughter. And I know," he gritted, "that I will kill you myself if you don't tell me where the Covenant has taken Sydney."

No sound came from Vaughn except a vague moan of pain. Eric released his hold on his leg, standing.

"Any luck?" Sark called out, leaning casually against the black Mercedes.

Eric nodded, glaring down at Vaughn. "He's Covenant," he confirmed shortly.

Vaughn stared at him, disbelieving. "I don't know anything," he repeated.

"Excellent," Sark said, withdrawing his car keys from his pocket. Without explanation he moved to the trunk, unlocking it leisurely and lifting it open.

"Oh, god," Eric murmured.

Seizing her thoughtlessly by her thick blonde hair, Sark tugged a gagged and bound Lauren from of the trunk, forcing her to scramble out on her elbows and knees. Violently he let her drop onto the pavement. Vaughn watched in wordless petrification.

"Both Allison Doren and Irina Derevko fabricated lives for themselves to better serve their seperate causes, be it for purely informational purposes or to further a maddeningly complex yet inarguably pointless plan originated by an 16th century lunatic with frequent hallucinations and some paper," Sark said calmly, looking directly at Vaughn. "In both instances, the agent was required to form a significant relationship with a member of the opposite sex to serve as a shield from inquiry. In both instances, the agent developed some semblance of real feeling toward their mark." He crouched down beside a terrified Lauren, drawing a switchblade from his boot. "I don't see why you should be any different, Agent Vaughn."

Eric stepped forward. "Sark, wait, this isn't -"

"Don't touch her!" Vaughn howled, cutting him off. "Don't hurt her! Eric, she's my wife!"

Sark placed the knife against Lauren's throat. "Yes, Agent Vaughn, this is your wife. And I can assure you, when I find Sydney I fully intend on marrying her. So you, of all people, understand the lengths I am willing to go to rescue her." To prove his point, Sark drew a red line across Lauren's neck with the cold steel blade.

A single tear slid from her eyes, whimpering through the strip of tape covering her mouth. Eric felt repulsed, unsure of what all he was willing to compromise. There would be no going back if he allowed Lauren's death.

Eric stood still.

"Stop!" Vaughn ordered. "Stop it! I'll tell you! Just don't..."

Sark removed the knife from under her chin, allowing her to again fall awkwardly onto the ground. He stepped over her, coming to a halt in front of Vaughn. "I won't ask again," he warned.

Swallowing the bile that rose to his throat, Vaughn avoided his gaze. "Rambaldi," he said slowly. "It's her religion."

There was a spark of recognition in his eyes, and after a moment Sark nodded. Without another word he sheathed the switchblade and walked steadily back to the Mercedes, where he opened the door and climbed inside. He glanced absently at Eric, who was doing a magnificent impression of an autistic schoolboy separated from his tour group. "Coming?" Sark asked briskly.

"What, that's it?" Eric snorted. "That's all you needed to know? Hell, I could've told you that!"

"I'll explain on the way. Are you in or out?" Sark said impatiently.

He glanced down at Lauren, who was weeping silently on the oil-stained pavement. Without answering, Eric stooped beside her, gently peeling away the tape slapped across her mouth. "Are you all right?" he whispered.

Her eyes darkened, baring her teeth at him. "Get away from me," she snapped.

"I'm sorry about this, Lauren. I really am. You have to understand..." He struggled with the words, unable to explain sufficiently.

Lauren shook her head, tuning him out.

"He's a traitor, Lauren. Mike's Covenant. He sold out Sydney. He's a traitor," Eric insisted, tugging away her rope bindings. She recoiled from his touch, curling into a defensive ball.

"So are you," she spat harshly. "You'll never convince her," Sark cautioned, observing from the driver's seat.

Eric spared one last look at Vaughn, who was breathing heavily, still chained to the pillar. Shaking his head, Eric strode to the Mercedes, stepping into the passenger side. Sark slid the gear into Drive and slammed on the gas pedal, tearing away from the bloody scene they'd caused.

-

Soothing darkness to blinding light, jolting her body as she suddenly came awake. Ockley glanced up, bent over her hand as he bathed her fingertips in cool water, burning her into consciousness.

"Did you have a nice rest?" he asked lightly, almost kindly. Less than twenty minutes ago she had blacked out from the gnawing pain shooting up her arm.

Sydney didn't answer right away, tilting her head to the side as much as the straps would allow. She was being kept in a quiet room filled with soft light, the smell of stone and staleness tainting the air. The walls surrounding her were bare, made of ageless granite, the same as the floor and ceiling. The steel folding chair Irina had set beside the operating table was vacated - she was alone with Ockley.

Eventually she turned back to face the doctor, frowning slightly. "You know, if your boy Milo is right about all this," she said slowly, "you will die at my hands."

Ockley smiled thinly, dabbing at the plentiful cuts criss-crossing her arms and legs, her stomach, her hands. Scratches, not deep enough to scar, were slashed irregularly across her face with a craft knife. "I've given up everything for Rambaldi," he said simply. "Maybe as much as Irina herself. Why then would I hesitate to give my life for his cause?"

"Why?" she asked, the ever-present Question. "Why Rambaldi? Why the obsession with his work? Why - why this?" She jerked her hand up, the chains holding her down chinking together to illustrate her point. "Why the brainwashing? Why the torture? Why kill Dad? What could possibly make this all right?"

"Just the pleasure of your company," said a new voice, faintly southern, making her skin crawl. A small, dark-haired man stood in the open doorway, scrutinizing Sydney with glee.

Ockley looked over at the newcomer with undisguised annoyance, an unwanted intrusion upon an artist at work. "Julia, you'll remember James Pike. He served as a liaison between the Covenant and the Medici, I believe."

Sydney raised a skeptical eyebrow, observing Pike with disinterest. No mean feat when strapped on a table, skin slick with your own blood. "Hmm," she grunted dismissively, "Those bruises are healing nicely."

Pike scowled. The aftermath of his encounter with Sark and a tabletop were still clearly visible four days later, a black eye and a busted lip. He straightened, sauntering over to the operating table. Ockley turned away to his instruments, wiping each stained metal piece with the same red rag.

The shirt Sydney had been fitted with was unbuttoned half way up to expose her stomach, where long, symmetrical cuts blazed brightly. Pike smiled faintly, sadistically, and ran a finger along her bare torso. "Where's Sark to stop me from touching you now?" he whispered.

Sydney snorted mockingly, unexpected. "Listen, you little monkey. At this point, a psychopathic midget feeling me up would be a welcome reprieve from the admittedly highly-skilled torture. Go ahead," she encouraged, "I'd enjoy seeing Irina literally rip your spine out through your nose when she sees you groping her daughter."

Ignoring them both, Ockley fetched a lighter from his white labcoat, flicking it on. He held the open flame to Sydney's mangled fingertips, cauterizing the wounds. A suppressed shriek escaped Sydney's throat, caught unprepared. Pike moved back, grinning.

"Enough!" Irina barked, walking quickly into the chamber. "I want her awake. Let her rest for a moment." She was instantly at Sydney's side, putting a hand to her forehead, smoothing back her hair, wiping away her constrained tears. "Are you all right?"

"Bite me," Sydney grunted promptly.

Pike laughed, enchanted with her moxie. He needed a girlfriend in the worst sort of way.

Ockley shut the Zippo, replacing it in his front coat pocket. Irina hovered over Sydney, worry in her eyes. "Can you walk?" she asked.

"Not in my current position, no," Sydney answered sarcastically.

"I have something to show you. Pike, help me unlatch her," Irina commanded, nimbly releasing the fastenings at Sydney's neck and arms. Pike obliged, and soon Sydney was allowed to swing stiff, injured legs over the side of the table, rising to an uncertain sitting position. Her entire body throbbed with renewed pain, the movement awakening the thousand gashes inflicted by Ockley. Pike candidly slipped handcuffs around her wrists as she took a deep breath, counting to three.

"Try to stand up," Irina instructed, a hand on her shoulder.

Sydney locked eyes with Ockley, who stood directly in front of her, and she forced her legs to comply. Almost instantly her knees buckled, sending her crashing into Ockley. He reached out to brace her as she fell against his chest, arms up to shield her face. She quickly reared back, clutching her wounded hand and snarling in pain.

"Don't jostle her hand!" Irina yelled. "Pike, carry her."

Ignoring her protests, Pike immediately swept her up into his arms. Irina turned on her heel and led them out into the dark corridor, Pike following closely.

"I'll have something new ready when you get back," Ockley called after them. "Have fun, Julia."

"Shove it, Igor," Sydney replied calmly, still holding her injured hand to her chest.

The hallway leading from the torture chamber was shadowed, lit by scented torches burning fiercely in their holders on the stone walls. The floor was covered in tiles, chipped layers of porcelain painted in faded reds and browns. Sydney observed her surroundings with detached unease, swaying slightly as Pike cradled her tauntingly in his arms. Erratic consciousness had lost Sydney her sense of direction; Night and day were unknown. Her only measure of time had been in the span it took for fresh wounds to cease bleeding. She would estimate 20 hours, at least, little more than a random guess.

It was a long corridor, straight down with no offshooting doors or forks in their path. Irina guided them absently, glancing back at Sydney every other step. Finally Pike carried her out of the endless tunnel.

A massive room, with echoing rafters and an altar untouched by time. The sight, the scent, all familiar. "Oh, god," Sydney breathed, "You brought me back."

-

"Sark?"

He gave no answer. He spun the steering wheel, bypassing a school bus, tires screeching.

Eric reached over and snapped his fingers in front of his face. Sark blinked, then bared his teeth. "I'll explain later," he snapped.

In response to the red light up ahead, Sark pressed down harder on the accelerator. Eric, meanwhile, clipped on his seatbelt.

"I trust you have a fake passport readily available?" Sark asked conversationally.

"I really hate you, Sark," Eric commented.

-

Irina quickly crossed the antiquated altar, not sparing a glance to the resplendant furnishings as she moved to the wooden door paralleling the hallway they'd just exited on the opposite side. Pike bounced Sydney playfully, smiling as he walked swiftly after Irina.
"Chin up, Julie," he said scornfully, "You're safe with us."

She angled her head upward, looking at him carefully. "Hey, Mom?" she called out.

Irina instantly halted, turning to her in question.

"Does this guy have any real purpose, other than spouting ineffuctual zingers?" Sydney asked, frowning as she observed Pike carefully.

Pike glared. Irina half-smiled and kept walking. They passed through the door and into a hallway similar to the one they'd just left, though immediately to their left was a confession booth. Irina navigated deftly down the hall.

Soon they came to a second door, also wooden. Sydney mentally mapped the church - the main entrace led into the chapel, where the two corridors flanking the altar led into either the chamber she'd been previously held in, or into this new hallway, where the half-dozen doors they'd passed would presumably lead to the priests' rectory. The last door at which they stopped led into a place Sydney could only dread.

Irina withdrew a silver key from her pocket and unlocked the creaking oaken door. Inside was relative darkness. Pike conducted Sydney inside.

The sight that met her eyes was both beautiful and fundamentally repulsive. Various objects, alike only in their advanced age, lined the shelves spanning all four walls. Trinkets, boxes, contraptions of no forseeable use. "Rambaldi's artifacts," Irina whispered. "Pike, guard the door."

With surprising care Pike set Sydney on the floor, her back to the wall, and left the two alone. The door closed behind him, his heavy breathing sounding through the plentiful cracks in the ancient wood.

With wide eyes Sydney beheld the glittering chamber, lit sparsely with candles littering the shelves beside the objects. Irina paced the room, skimming her fingers lightly along the artifacts.

"He was an architect," Irina said suddenly. "Pope Alexander VI's chief advisor. He was ex-communicated for heresy, sentenced to death for dare suggesting that science could allow us to communicate with God." She glanced at Sydney, who drew her legs against her chest, her previous energy dissipated.

"He developed machine code during the Ottoman empire, Sydney," Irina added. She lifted a sketch off one of the shelves, a meaningless floor plan of an unbuilt cathedral. Written on the back in smudged ink was an unmistakable prototype for the typewriter. Sydney didn't speak, gripping her injured hand in the other. Irina replaced the sketch.

"These are all Rambaldi's artifacts, every one of them that has survived. Many of them you destroyed after escaping from the Covenant. I've spent my entire life gathering these, Sydney," Irina said, something close to pride in her voice. "Ryden supplied the last few missing pieces in exchange for my permission to hunt you down. He blamed you for Simon Walker's death. You loved Simon?"

"Yes," said Sydney quietly.

"And you're in love with Sark?"

She nodded slowly.

"And you loved Jack?"

"Yeah, Mom," Sydney rasped. "I love everybody I'm supposed to hate. And you know what? I love you, too."

Irina stilled, facing Sydney, unblinking. Sydney leaned forward slightly, meeting her gaze, smiling cruelly. "I love you, Mom," she hissed. "I've already lost one parent. Do you really think I'd kill the other? You were wrong. So completely wrong."

Irina let out a shuddering breath, her smooth veneer of control slipping fractionally. It was as close to uncertainty as Sydney had ever seen in her mother.

"Don't fool yourself, Sydney," she said forcefully. "Rambaldi dedicated his life to you, just as I have. Of all his stories, yours was his favorite." She paused to consider, choosing her words carefully. "It's like a chess match. A puzzle. Eventually you learn to play it to your advantage. You're a queen, Sydney, the most powerful piece on the board. Don't get caught off guard protecting the pawns."

"Well, gee. Now I see where Julian got his knack for ostentatious diatribes," Sydney muttered. "I get it, Mom. Four moves ahead, right, always be prepared. But that's the problem with looking at everything like a damned chess match. Everything is black and white."

Her words barely seemed to register with Irina, who was again surveying the artifacts with reverence. "Of all his creations, all his discoveries. He considered you to be his greatest," she said in an undertone. Sydney ignored her, dropping his head against her knees in defeat.

With sudden decisiveness Irina spun and traveled to the door, taking hold of the latch and pulling it open just enough to slip through. "Consider it while you rest," she told Sydney, shutting the door behind her. The scratch of wood against metal informed Sydney that she had been locked inside.

She listened, ears straining as she heard Irina speak in a low voice to Pike. Quickly a light step disappeared down the corridor, though the sound Pike's unsettled breathing remained.

Grimacing, Sydney unclenched her hands, which she'd held fervently to her stomach since falling against Ockley. Clutched in her right hand, all the fingernails missing save her index finger, she gripped the lighter Ockley had used to savagely burn her skin. She'd palmed it from his coat pocket after feigning a fall from her weakened legs. Handcuffed at her wrists and ankles, she flicked open the lighter, briefly allowing the limited orange flame to gain heat. Without wasting further time Sydney angled the lighter between her wrists, scorching her fingers further, and held the flame directly to the slim metal chains.

After several minutes, she experimentally tugged on the handcuffs. The metal pulled, bent slightly, the links weakened. Another, more forceful yank, and they broke apart. Purple bruises blossomed directly in a circle along her wrists, but Sydney paid no notice. She immediately began to work on the chains at her ankles.

-

A 9-hour flight filled with tedium and exasperation, and Eric felt he'd been a pretty good sport thus far. Biting his tongue, he followed Sark briskly through the terminal, breezing past bewildered flight attendants inquiring after their utter lack of baggage. Sark waved them off impatiently, loping through the crowded airport, heading directly for the car rental port.

Of course, Sark didn't rent a car. He simply hotwired the first sports car he found and ordered Eric to get in. "Damsel in distress," he said in irritation. "I don't have bloody time to do things legally."

Eric let the issue slide. He did, however, raise hell. "All right, Blondie. Speak up. I just took a plane from Los Angeles to some hellhole in the middle of France, and the only thing you said to me during the entire flight was 'I'll explain when we get there' and 'Are you going to eat that package of peanuts?' The time has come, my non-friend, to tell me what the fuck is going on."

Sark rolled his eyes, wholly unintimidated by the man seated beside him. "Are you always so petulant?" he criticized.

  "You never learned to share, did you?" Eric bickered.

Sark turned the stolen Jaguar onto a quiet residency street, peaceful and picturesque in the late afternoon sun. "I share," Sark argued indignantly. "I share a lot!"

  "Whoa. Did you just have a Care Bear moment?"

In icy response, Sark punched on the radio to full blast, drowning Eric out.

Laughing wearily, Eric switched back off the radio. "All right. I'm serious. What did Vaughn tell you?"

Pulling into an overgrown driveway, Sark relented. "When Sydney and I were each captured and tortured by the Covenant," he began.

"That's never a good way to start a conversation," Eric noted, climbing out of the parked car.

"Yes, well. We were both held in the same room, you see. All white, completely void of any remarkable feature, except for a picture on the wall. L'église des âmes perdues -roughly, the Church of Lost Souls." They reached the porch, stepping over creeper vines winding through the carved wood. "Sydney brought me there before I was brought to the Ockley for brainwashing. It was there, I believe, that I first fell in love with her, though I doubt that was her design. Because of that memory, I recognized the picture, therefore undermining the Covenant's attempts to break into my mind."

Sark withdrew a set of keys from his pocket, unlocking the front door and ushering Eric inside. "I never understood why Ockley would allow such a chance to occur. Why have the picture there at all? It was Agent Vaughn's confession that made me realize, of course. Irina had put the picture there. She didn't want her daughter brainwashed any more than Sydney did herself. Remember, though, Irina was a founding member of the Covenant, now the only surviving director. She did have some sway over Sydney's treatment."

The interior of the small house was a stark contrast to its outer look, all thick leaves and white, chipping paint. Inside was coldly modern, metal and leather and grey.

"So Irina sent Sydney to the church, to break the conditioning that had been marginally successful. Naturally, Sydney's own mental crisis stopped her from delving too deeply into the subject. She, nor I for that matter, ever really considered the significance of the church itself," Sark explained.

"You're really taking your time with this, aren't you?" Eric complained.

"I've always known Irina treats Rambaldi with an almost religious respect," Sark said impatiently. "But so have a great many people over the decades. It seems likely, don't you think, that they'd have some sort of shrine? That Rambaldi isn't just their idol, that perhaps he truly is their God?"

"So, what? This church - it's the Temple of Rambaldi?" Eric said skeptically. "And Irina took Sydney there?"

  "Try to keep in mind, shall we, that Irina is obviously a bit unhinged, as well as a mass murderer," Sark pointed out.

"Which is different from you... how?"

  "I look better in leather," Sark replied confidently.

"If you're expecting a reply, Don't."

Shrugging, Sark crouched beside a massive steel box placed in the corner of the cramped living room. He selected a second key and opened the heavy lock fastened on the handle.

"Hey, you two must really be serious about each other, if she gave you a key to her private arsenal," Eric commented, smiling tightly.

"I gave her the security codes for my stockpiles in Durnstein and Berlin," Sark said easily. "It was a big step for us."

Eric turned away, sighing faintly. Just in view, down the narrow hall, was the single bedroom, a darkened, comfortable room with soft furniture and an unmade bed. "What is this place, anyway?" he asked.

"One of Sydney's safehouses," Sark answered, digging about in the weapons locker. "She used it while she was still under the alias Julia Thorne. I first found her here using the tracker placed on my Mercedes, which she'd previously stolen. Good times."

"What is it with you people and Grand Theft Auto?"

"We're spies. Video games don't hold our interest."

"Fine. So, what's the plan? Head over there and go gun-crazy on Mama Bristow's kidnapping ass? Please tell me you have a better plan than that," Eric said, carefully shifted the conversation back to business.

"Not really, no. You're welcome to opt out. I think she has HDTV, if you'd like to wait here. Or you could go back to L.A.. You're call, really." Finally Sark found the weapon he was looking for, a rifle he'd stored in the house out of foreign respect for its previous owner.

"No, it isn't. I can't go home," Eric said bitterly. "Not after aiding in the torture of not one, but two, say it, two CIA agents. My life back there is over, Blondie. Might as well help rescue the girl."

"That's the spirit," Sark grunted, unknowing or perhaps uncaring of Eric's morose tone. He shouldered the rifle, only then catching Eric's attention.

"Hey, now. That looks... expensive," he remarked.

"Dakota T-76. A gift from Sydney," Sark explained. "It belonged to Simon Walker."

"Yeah, I never really got that. She loved him?" Eric wondered.

  "Hell, I don't know. Her past love life is far too complicated for me to follow, frankly," Sark confessed.

  "Tell me about it."

Eric selected an M-16 from Sydney's entirely over-stocked locker. That done, Sark replaced the lock, hesitating at the door to cast a final glance around the room. Eric followed his gaze, saying wryly, "What, is this the place you two professed your undying love or something?"

"Not exactly. I beat the crap out of her and then ripped her clothes off," Sark stated, unconcerned.

Eric blinked. Thick silence filled the air.

"Well," Eric said finally. "That certainly falls under the category of 'I Shouldn't Have Asked'."

"You said I should learn how to share," Sark defended, smirking.

"I'm going to go attack a church and pretend we never had this conversation. Please do the same."

They returned to the hotwired Jaguar, tearing through the streets of Etrelles, headed west toward Rennes.