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Proving Yourself
Sark gathered his things quietly while Calvin and Sydney slept. He would wake them in a few minutes. He leaned over his bag to zip it shut, but a sharp pain in his side stopped him.
He took a deep breath and gently clutched the stab wound. His fingers grabbed the edge of his shirt, which he raised carefully. Sark studied the dressings on the wound. They were pink with his soaked blood. He sighed and took off his shirt.
Where'd she put the medical supplies? He searched around for it for several minutes, digging into logical places but coming up empty-handed. Sark didn't want to wake her. He didn't want her to see him . . .vulnerable.
He checked her bag in the bathroom four times, and after that decided he didn't have a choice.
She didn't look very peaceful as she slept. Glad to see I'm not the only one, Sark thought. He leaned over her and shook her shoulder.
"Sydney," he whispered. She stirred and her eyes fluttered open. In her eyes he saw a glimpse of joy, and then a rush of sorrow as she must have remembered the night before.
Sark bypassed that.
"Where are the bandages?" he asked. She just stared at him, processing what he said.
"Um," she started, sitting up in the bed, "in the drawer." She pointed at the nightstand between the beds.
Sark smiled tightly and got what he needed. He spread some ointment over the gauze and pressed it against his skin.
"Where did you go?" he heard Sydney ask. Her voice was soft, tentative. Sark slowed his pace in taping down the gauze. His eyes flickered to her, and then back to patching himself up.
"I contacted Irina," he said. "I asked her if she had anyone inside MI6."
Sydney sat up. "Does she?"
Sark nodded and turned for his shirt. "Yes. Yielding is at a manor in Scotland that MI6 bought years ago. But we don't have an address."
Sydney looked confused. "So we just have somewhere in Scotland to go on?"
Sark smirked at her. "No. The records of the purchase are in one of the government data storage facilities. The particular one we want is in Wales."
Sydney raised an eyebrow. "Well. We should go then."
Sark nodded and turned to Calvin. "Cal, wake up."
-------
Anglesey, Wales. Sydney knew someone whose last name was Anglesey. She wondered how the family factored into this area of Wales.
And then she realized it really didn't matter.
The records they needed were in a county building of sorts. It seemed ordinary enough, but the basement had security systems that seemed extreme for protecting civil marriage and death records.
They were on their way to the building, driving a rented SUV. Sydney finished braiding her hair as she watched Sark talk to Calvin.
"You're staying here, and there's no room for argument," Sark said sternly. Calvin groaned.
"Why? I can help, really!"
Sark shot him a look that clearly spelled disbelief.
Calvin held up his hands. "Okay, so it was bad luck that I sat by that white-haired chick at the club—"
"Who turned out to be an assassin," Sark said. "Do I need to say anymore?" Calvin tried to interrupt. "No, Cal, you stay in the car, and wait for us to come out. Don't leave the car at all."
Sark turned the car, and parked by the side of the road. He glared at Calvin through the rearview.
"Are we clear?"
Calvin sighed and nodded. Sydney tried to hide a smile.
"Let's go," Sydney said, tossing her finished braid over one shoulder.
Sark wore the tackiest fishing hat Sydney had ever seen. It was light green and had fish with large, gaping mouths printed all over it. His shirt was better, just plain blue. And he wore khaki shorts.
Shorts!! That just about did Sydney in there. But she knew Sark needed a little something to hide his identity, just in case some government clerk had a sharp eye. Whether that disguising element was the hat or shorts, she wasn't sure.
Sydney wore simple red Capri pants, and a white t-shirt. Nothing extravagant, but that was the point.
She glanced over her shoulder to the car. Calvin's shoulder sagged and she could tell he was sulking as she and Sark walked away.
As they entered the building, Sydney put her best ditsy face on. A male clerk at the window watched them approach.
Sark grabbed her arm, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him place a cheesy grin on his face. The contact surprised her. Their . . . argument from before still stung, but Sark always had a remarkable ability to ignore feelings. Time to turn off your own emotions, she thought.
"Yes?" the clerk said.
"We'd like to give notice of our upcoming marriage," Sark said. He wore the broadest smile Sydney had ever seen on him. It was freakish, but mainly because Sark just wasn't a smiler.
The clerk pulled out a form.
"Complete this. I'll need to see your identification too." The man didn't try to hide his boredom.
Sark pulled out a fake passport, while Sydney used a passport from one of her American aliases. As soon as the clerk saw her passport, he launched into rules.
"You aren't a resident?" he asked. Sydney stuttered a meaningless reply. "I need to see your entry papers, verifying your clearance to be in the UK."
"Isn't my passport enough?" Sydney said, blinking flirtatiously. The clerk wasn't impressed.
"Wait," Sark said, looking at Sydney with hopeful eyes, which were half-covered by his ridiculous hat. How does he manage to look so gorgeous when he's wearing that hat? "She filed the papers with her residency request."
The clerk furrowed his brow. "I'm sorry?" Sark leaned forward, as if certain he was right.
"Yes, we called a couple of weeks ago and they instructed us to send you her clearance from the government, and her residency application," he said with a nod.
"Sir," the clerk began, "that's not our standard procedure for—"
"But you need the clearance, right?" Sydney asked, her voice teetering on tears. "I sent it in to you already. Is this going to hold up our marriage?"
On cue, she turned quickly from the clerk and buried her face in Sark's chest. She made her chest heave as if she were crying. Sark laid a comforting arm around her back.
That felt so good, she thought. Right, focusing again.
"Sir, is it possible the clearance made it here? Where would it be kept?" Sark asked, showing his best concerned-fiancé face.
The clerk didn't say anything for a moment. Sydney couldn't see him, but she started to sob loudly. The clerk quickly spoke up.
"Perhaps it is in our storage area," he said. He moved around the counter and started walking for the stairs. Sark quickly followed him, with Sydney at his heels. She swiped at her makeup.
The clerk glanced over his shoulder and hesitated. Sydney knew they weren't supposed to follow, but she also knew the clerk would just let it go.
He did, and charged ahead.
The clerk led them downstairs to the basement. The room was littered with filing cabinets. The clerk went to a specific one, labeled "miscellaneous." Both Sark and Sydney let their eyes wander over the room. And both spotted the metal door.
That's it.
Sark quickly stepped towards the clerk, and before he could even sense anything was wrong, Sark hit him at the back of the neck. The clerk fell forward against the filing cabinet, and then slid to the floor like gelatin.
Sydney skipped to the metal door. There was a keypad next to it. Sydney dug through her oversized purse and removed a basic descrambler.
As it did its magic, she felt Sark brush against her arm. She flickered her eyes to him.
"You'd think they would protect their information better," she mused aloud.
"The data is mainly property records. Nothing too vital or threatening," Sark said. The keypad blinked a green light three times, and Sark opened the door for her.
"Thank you," Sydney said, and went through. And then she froze. There was something so normal in his gesture, but she knew it wasn't meant as politeness. It was just a door! And even if it was a gentlemanly gesture, it wasn't unusual. Sark was always polite.
Before, when we were . . . what were we? Dating? Another thought crossed her mind. Does that mean we're not now? They argued and it'd been awkward since, but were things over?
"Sydney?" Sark called from a computer. She shook her head clear. Over-analyze later, Syd.
Sark's eyes showed some amused concern at her random wandering. "I found a database to search. But it only points to the hard copy record."
"What?" Sydney asked. "Do we have the hard copy here?" Sark typed something in the computer.
"Just a moment," he said. Again, politely! Sydney rolled her eyes at herself. "I'm narrowing the MI6 properties down . . ."
He typed some more. Sydney started looking around the room for the first time. It was . . . sterilized. White walls, metal shelves, and racks of CD-ROMs. There were tons of the discs, stacked neatly but covering every inch of space on the shelves.
"It's on Disc 96381." Sark looked up from the computer. "Crap," he added, when he saw all the discs.
"They have to be organized," Sydney said, looking for labels among the stacks.
"Syd, we don't have much time."
"Then we better look quickly," she said. Her eyes scanned over numbers. There were so many. The numbers just blurred, going on forever, it seemed. Sydney moved around the room, but Sark beat her to it.
"Here it is," he said. He grabbed the disc and put it in the computer. He started writing something down on a piece of paper while Sydney watched him. His jaw was set and his eyes focused on what he wrote.
"Let's go," he said, folding up the paper.
They left quickly, heading out the front door of the building.
"That was easy," Sydney said. But she felt like it could still go wrong. Out of habit, she looked over her shoulder. But no one came yelling after them from the building. She looked ahead to the car, where Calvin sat. She saw him move, as if pointing at something.
What?
Suddenly Sark turned to face across the street. His body went rigid, and Sydney looked to see why.
She caught a glimpse of a man in a trench coat. He pulled something from the cover of the coat. She gasped as she realized what it was. The sawed-off shotgun came up and she heard the explosion from its barrels.
Sark's body rammed into hers. His weight purposely flattened her on the ground. Sydney's chest heaved with adrenaline, but with Sark on top of her, she could do nothing.
It didn't matter. Sark covered her with his body. He whipped out a gun—where did he have it?—and fired four shots in quick succession.
His jaw was set again, and his eyes never left his target. Sark spread his limbs to protect Sydney as much as possible. He didn't move after firing, but he watched. Sydney turned her head to see the fallen assassin.
He wouldn't move ever again.
Sark finally looked away as screams filled the air from terrified bystanders. He looked down at Sydney, and despite those screams, she couldn't help but look back into his eyes. His eyes were concerned but soft. They didn't communicate the standard 'are you okay' look. It was almost . . . yearning. Not the physical kind, but . . .
It was his soul looking into hers, asking why things weren't different. An unbelievably depressing sadness filled Sydney. She didn't have an answer to communicate, just the mutual pain. The pain from both realizing what the problem was.
A car's engine revved up and screeched to a halt beside where they lay.
"Uh, now would be good," Calvin said from the driver's seat. Sark nodded without looking away from Sydney.
They got up and into the car. Sark took over in the driver's seat, and they sped away.
"I told you I can help," Calvin said, a hint of a swelling ego in his voice. "I knew something was up with that guy."
Sark glanced at his brother and grinned. "Yes, Calvin. You did well." Cal turned in his seat to look back at Sydney. She smiled at his exuberance, until he looked away.
Then she stared out the window, seeing nothing in her mind but that look from Sark's eyes, and thinking about nothing but the sadness in those eyes.
-------
The evening was peaceful. Being in this large manor, with such solitude around her, it reminded Ilene of being in a classic English novel.
Except for Yielding and armed British agents everywhere—that put a damper on the mood.
She lay on her stomach on the bed, reading Evelina. It certainly was boring, but it distracted her thoughts from . . . other matters. Ilene turned a page in the book.
And then chucked it across the room.
She rolled over on her back and covered her face with her hands. A miserable sigh escaped her lips. She couldn't get Alan out of her mind.
Yielding! She reminded herself to call him that. It made him colder, and therefore easier to hate. Ilene moved her hands to her hair and brushed her fingers through the red waves.
There was no mistaking that Alan—or Yielding—was intensely attractive. His lean build was accentuated by his height, and dark hair with those bright green eyes . . .
Wow.
Ilene sat up suddenly. I am not falling for my captor.
What would Julian say if I was stockholming on this guy? She nodded her head to herself, as if that strengthened her resolve.
I don't need any convincing to hate him, she thought. He kidnapped me! And he's planning on arresting Julian.
Which is why I didn't kiss him. She wanted to pat herself on the back for that, but part of her was screaming that she was a fool for not kissing him.
And I'm dwelling on the whole kissing thing because . . .
Right. I'm not dwelling on it at all. Because I hate him. She nodded again.
She heard something rattle at the door, and then it swung open. Her heart leapt and she subconsciously swiped a hand through her hair.
It was another agent. He was average height, average build, average looks . . . Agent Average.
"Agent Yielding thought you might want to see your father," Average said. He stepped aside, and Ilene's father came into the room.
She noticed he threw a glare at the agent, but then erased it with a relieved and broad smile to Ilene.
"Dad!" She stowed away any disappointment and ran to her father. They hugged tightly. Ilene felt relieved that her dad was all right. But she hadn't really thought about him since being here. That annoyed her, but she threw that away for the moment.
"Are you all right? Have they hurt you in any way?" her dad asked. Ilene shook her head.
"No. You?"
Her dad shook his head as well. "Let's sit." He pointed to some elegant chairs in the room, one of which Ilene had considered breaking earlier that morning.
"Ilene, do you think your brother will make it here?" he asked. His hands were clasped together, a gesture of the concern that he was trying to control. Ilene glanced at those hands and then back at her father's face.
"He'll make it here, and probably soon," she said. "I think Yielding will release you before, just to make sure Julian finds this place."
"I won't let them release me without you," he said quickly. "They may use one of us to lure Julian in, but it has to be me."
Ilene half-smiled at her dad's stoic behavior. "Dad, I'm pretty sure they'll make me stay."
"I'm not leaving you here alone, with those—"
"I'll be fine," she said, flashing a reassuring smile. "I'm more worried about Julian."
Her dad looked confused. "But you said he'd make it here."
"Yes, but with all of them waiting for him," she said. She stopped, thinking about their predicament. "We have to help him."
"How?"
Ilene leaned forward in her chair. "Pay attention to the guards. When you're released, see how many are outside, where they are, how heavily armed they are—every detail that can help Julian."
She noticed her dad's perplexed look. He wasn't used to this kind of operational talk, especially from her. But Ilene had been around Julian enough to know what he would look for, what he'd do.
"Promise me, if they do make me go, that you'll be careful," her dad said, giving her a stern look as if she were about to go on a date.
Ilene smiled, a quick brief flash before thoughts of Yielding invaded her mind. Her eyes studied the floor as she thought.
"Dad, I don't think they'll . . . Yielding won't hurt me," she said. She could almost hear her dad's confused expression.
"He kidnapped us, Ilene," he said. His voice was full of skepticism. "That places him in the dangerous category."
"I know, and he started out really wanting to hurt Julian—"
"Not just Julian," he interrupted. "Us! He's been holding us illegally, and he threatened—"
"He started that way, Dad, but I think he's changing," Ilene said.
"People like him don't change," her dad said roughly. Ilene looked directly in her father's eyes.
"Julian did."
Her father sat back in his chair, and sighed. The two didn't say anything for several moments.
Ilene sighed as well. "Look, I'm just saying that . . . that I don't think Yielding is as bad as we thought. Maybe he's weighed down by what his government is telling him to do."
"He still has a job to do, whether he's 'changing' or not." Ilene's dad paused, clasping his hands again. "And we both know Julian won't forget that."
Ilene's breath caught in her throat. So far she'd only considered what Yielding would do, but her brother's reaction . . . . Julian didn't forget things, especially where she and her family were concerned. Yielding had said that Julian murdered Strachen.
What will he do to Yielding?
She still didn't know what Yielding would do to Julian. She couldn't trust him, even if she felt he wasn't so terrible.
Ilene brought a hand to her mouth as she thought.
What will they do to each other?
No matter what she thought or wanted to believe, a war was coming.
-------
Scotland hadn't changed in the day since they'd left. They weren't far from the manor, or at least that's why Julian said.
Calvin was tired of sitting around, but it was dark already, and they weren't planning on rescuing Ilene until tomorrow night. It made sense, he guessed, since they went to Wales and back today and narrowly avoided getting shot by a hitman.
Courtesy of me, Calvin thought with a smirk. He still was proud of himself for recognizing the man as an assassin, and for warning Julian before he struck.
Julian was sleeping now. It wasn't often that he slept while Calvin was awake. Normally Calvin was up playing video games or hanging out with friends. But Julian never slept until Calvin was in his room.
He awoke early too. You'd think he would have ditched the 6 a.m. routine when he left the whole spy world, Calvin thought. He shrugged. At least he's actually getting some rest.
Calvin watched a film on the television. He glanced over at Sydney. She sat in a chair by the room's one table. Her feet were up on the other chair and her eyes were on Julian. In fact, every time Calvin had checked, she was watching his brother.
She must have sensed him watching her now, and glanced over to Calvin. She smiled, a little nervous twitch at being caught. Calvin grinned.
"He's nicer when he sleeps," he joked. Sydney smiled and looked away for a moment.
"He seems more innocent at least," she said. It was a heavy statement when it came to his brother. Calvin turned the television off and went over to Sydney. She pulled her feet back, allowing him to sit in the other chair.
"You must get tired of having to help Julian rescue us," he said, making conversation. He wanted to hit himself instantly for choosing such a subject. Sydney looked away, but then back again and she spoke.
"It's the least I could do," she said.
What does that mean! Calvin shifted in his seat.
"Cal," she started, as if suddenly voicing what she was thinking about, "does it seem like I'm not . . . I mean, am I gone too much?"
And where did that come from?! Calvin shifted in his seat again.
"Um, like, when things are normal?" It sounded more stupid out loud than in his head.
Sydney smiled to herself and shook her head. "It's okay. Let's talk about something else," she suggested. She put on her insta-smile. Calvin wasn't fluent on the subject known as Sydney Bristow, but he knew when her smile was fake.
"No," he said quickly, "it's okay." Calvin ran a hand through his hair. He rubbed it quickly. "Well, you have your life in Los Angeles. I mean, I know you still work for the CIA and all. That's a lot to handle." He smiled tightly, hoping that was the answer she was looking for. But it seemed to make her frown. Calvin piped up again. "I mean, you have your friends and family there too, so . . ."
She tucked her hair behind her ear and opened her mouth. She paused, mouth still open, but then pressed on. "What does Sark say, when I'm gone?"
Danger, danger! He wasn't an expert in . . . well, anything, but he knew this question was loaded like a potato after a visit to the toppings bar.
Calvin shifted in his seat, again. "Well . . . nothing, really." Sydney leaned back in her chair. She thinks I'm not telling her everything. He wasn't about to disappoint her, partially because she was the one and only, extremely gorgeous Sydney Bristow, and partially because he wasn't unaware of the tension between her and Julian.
"I mean, he doesn't say much," he said. "Julian kind of . . . he isn't the most personable guy when you're not around."
Sydney raised an eyebrow at that. "Has he ever been Mr. Friendly?"
Calvin shrugged with a consenting nod. "It's not that he's mean, though. He still talks to me and all. But he spends a lot more time alone. Even if we're in the same room, he's off somewhere else in his mind, thinking about . . . something."
Sydney swallowed hard, and for a brief moment of horror, Calvin thought she was going to cry. She didn't, but asked another question. "Do you think it's because of me that he's that way?"
Sheesh, just keep piling it on with the questions, he thought sarcastically. "I don't know what he thinks about. And Julian's not shallow enough to be so down just because of how much time you don't spend together," he said. "Maybe it's something else."
He didn't really know where that came from, but it seemed to hit Sydney. She stared at the floor, her eyes filled with guilt.
"He is happier with you, you know," Calvin added, hoping to make up for whatever feelings he just stomped on.
She nodded, again and again, to herself. And then she looked up and smiled at him.
"Thanks, Calvin."