Chapter 5: Scholar's Privilege - an English tradition of excluding attacks to the face during practice with novices.
Sark stood in the dingy warehouse where they held Dodgson.
He was a distinctly aggrieved young man.
On his arrival in Europe he'd been keenly looking forward to taking just 24 hours out to hit the bars, take in a couple of art house movies, and fuck himself senseless in the expert company of a couple of Artan Silenko's ever so obliging whores. And what did he get instead? The run-around from Arvin Sloane – again – no RnR anywhere in sight, and now the possibility that he'd have to torture Dodgson. Needless to say, he'd be the one to inflict the actual pain, Sloane never got his hands dirty.
It was a scenario where he felt as uncomfortable as a wet cat being stroked up the wrong way.
Well torture's off the agenda and that's it. There's no point to it. If we want her to work the Rambaldi problem, she can't do it if she's too scared to think …
Sark didn't address the fact directly, but he found it loathsome whenever he was forced to physically torture a woman. He'd do it, he'd done it before and he could do it again, but he hardly relished it.
His mind ground through his annoyance.
Arvin. Fucking. Sloane.
Yep, kidnapping, torture and coercion, it had Arvie all over it. His own plan had been straightforward and simple – just approach her quietly and pay her to do what they wanted. Anything wrong with that? Nothing! – except it wasn't convoluted enough!
He felt positively martyred, almost self-pitying.
No rest for the wicked? I'm living proof!
James awoke in a dirty open space lit by a wall of neon lights. Her foggy mind tried to process the information: underground?
A man who looked like a genetic experiment gone wrong between a rat and a monkey was peering into her face from six inches away. She tried to focus on him but he was blurry and when he spoke his words came as though from a far off room.
"Are you sure the drugs had no permanent damaging effect?" he asked.
She tried to shift her gaze to watch Blond Guy answer, but it was like trying to move a heavy piece of furniture with just her eyelids.
"Quite sure," Sark opined - she'd better be, or Irina's going to have my arse.
James slowly realised that she was slumped over a table and registered something cold on her wrists, she instinctively tried to pull her hands away only to find that she couldn't –'the cold' was shackles. She noted that Blond Guy's only response to her movement was to hit her with a flat, annoyed gaze and allow his black leather jacket to swing open, deliberately displaying the gun he wore on his hip.
Somewhere off, a heavy industrial-sounding door clanged shut with what could only be described as 'finality'.
She took in the situation: chained up, and guys with guns? She wasn't going to talk her way out of this one.
She groggily looked about her, stiff neck straightening painfully, head feeling as though it were about to roll off and go crashing to the floor like a bowling ball. She saw that the 'walls' were wire mesh, there was a steel table, cheap metal chairs and a lot of chains pointlessly hanging from pulleys.
Bet the chains are here just to make the place look extra scary!Yep - Deco Scary Industrial. James Dodgson ignored Rat Guy who was continuing to gaze into her eyes from less than a hand span away and instead looked around her: chains, mesh, black leather, she looked over at Blond Guy from out of one eye as the other closed against the painfully bright light, and pretty boys? Her mind snapped-to, she glared at Rat Guy.
"What is this, the back room at a gay bar?"
Sark blinked – yep, the files had been right about one thing, she had unpredictable responses alright.
Rat Guy leant back in his seat, seemingly pleased that she was mentally alert. He ignored her question.
"Dr. Dodgson, my name is Arvin Sloane."
James' mind flared into action, clawing together information from her scant, long off briefing by the NSA and adding it to anything she'd gleaned from about a dozen spy movies. He'd told her his name. That was a bad thing, right? Because now he wasn't going to let her go anytime soon, like, ever? She noticed a slight pause as though he expected her to respond. Where was Aaron?
"Where's my family?" she shouted.
Well, she tried to shout, but her voice felt as though it were sandpapering her throat – from the inside out.
"They're alive, and if you co-operate you'll be re-united with them soon enough," responded Sloane smoothly.
Re-united with them soon enough? Yeah, sure I won't, thought James - because you've already told me who you are, you lying asshole!
"Years ago I was with the Army Corps of Engineers." Sloane carried on as though he were an actor with a script he had to get through. "They wanted me to study this." He indicated a half-opened leather document box on the table. "That manuscript is over 500 years old. These sketches were drawn by a man named Milo Rambaldi." James found Sloane's voice sibilant, sinuous, as though he were sliding into her mind; she tried to push him out. "You will see that Rambaldi prophesied scientific principals centuries ahead of his time." That pushing, insinuating voice again. "Prototypes of his designs have turned up all over the world; for the past 30 years I've been collecting them." His voice, it was mesmerising, as though he was sucking her under. "You're going to help me put them together because, you see Dr. Dodgson I know that you feel you are only a hostage right now, - " it was his hypnotic, lulling voice, if she didn't fight now …
James' mind reared up. "Oh puhleeze, just shut up you asshole! There is no way I am gonna help you! I don't believe you even have my family! They weren't in that van when you snatched me - "
"Doctor," Sloane cut across her, a slight note of vexation at being so interrupted, "I assume you became a scientist to discover the lost secrets of the universe, hence you will help me and as to there being 'no way', there are many ways." He stilled, smiling with what appeared to be an almost avuncular concern, it sat ill with his next words. "If you do not comply, you may have to learn that there is something special about pain Doctor - "
"Yeah, it hurts."
" – that makes it a highly effective incentive." Sloane glanced behind him. "Mr. Sark, if you please?"
James whipped her gaze in the direction of 'Mr. Sark' a.k.a. Blond Guy. Great, another fucking name, just what I needed. And Sark? What kinda name's 'Sark'? She saw that Sloane had addressed Blond Guy in a careless fashion, as though he were a servant; her stare followed 'Sark', her voice calling out tauntingly. She attacked because she was scared."Well lookey, the class-room good boy, The Ass-Kissing Goodie Two Shoes of Evil." She jolted to a halt as she saw the small medical trolley 'Mr. Sark' had approached. It was full of nasty little objects. Scalpels – yes she definitely noticed the scalpels - pins, skewers, syringes, hammers, chisels, shit – was that a blow torch? The inference didn't need to be voiced.
There was a long silence in the room.
Sark slid an annoyed, glittering glance at her, James caught it. With his blond hair and blue eyes he looked like a choirboy who'd been at the communion wine.
Still think it's clever to call me the Goodie Two Shoes of Evil, Doctor?
In a dangerous situation Sark knew he looked at his most terrifying when he smiled. So, he smiled: open, engaging, almost cheeky.
James' response was to glare up at Sloane, cutting him off in mid-speech.
"When those space aliens took you up into their big ole' ship, just how many times did they stick the anal probe up your ass?" Sloane stopped abruptly, uncomprehending. "I don't know what medication you're on you grimy-souled old weirdo, but someone better double the dosage!" Her voice rose to a shout. "And you wanna find the lost secrets of the universe, ass-hat? Start where I usually do, try looking down the back of the sofa!"
Sloane's gaze flickered uncertainly.
Sark watched James intently. He'd been blind-sided by James Dodgson before, he didn't want it to happen twice. He was in an enclosed room with a chained up prize asset, a man he considered to be roving, unstable megalomaniac, and with a trolley full of weapons. Not comfy. James Dodgson's unpredictability was something Sark knew he was going to have to control - one wrong turn and she was going to push Sloane over an edge.
James ripped on.
"And what do you mean? I feel I am only a hostage right now? I am a fucking hostage, you moron! What are you, dressing this up as some kinda' social occasion? I am chained to a table, while Blond Boy here threatens me with a scalpel - "
Sark bristled - Boy?
" – and you're saying you've got my nephew held captive someplace - "
Sark noticed she didn't mention her husband.
" – and you think I'm gonna be thankin' you for giving me the answers to what the universe has to offer?" She'd run out of breath, so took a deep one before her next shouted assault. "Now, where's my fuckin' family?"
Dr. James Dodgson was glaring at Sloane, and Sloane was sliding into a rage.
Whoopsadaisy!
'Boy' or not, Sark knew he had to intervene before things got completely out of hand. Sark may have been a servant, may even have partly seen himself as one, but he was Irina Derevko's servant, and not Arvin Sloane's. He was buggered if he was going to let the older man screw up the game for him.
"Dr. Dodgson." His English accent cut through the air. "As to whether we genuinely hold your husband and nephew captive, or simply have 'liar' on our job descriptions, please be assured that we do hold them." He'd moved across to where Dodgson and Sloane still had each other on visual lockdown. He issued her a directive, his voice hardening. "Look at me Dr. Dodgson."
James continued to glare at Sloane. "No thanks, I'm scared I'll go blind from all that smugness."
Sark tersely reached into an inside jacket pocket and pulled out a cell-phone with video-capture capacity, he positioned it in her line of sight. "Look."
As he'd calculated, she had to break her gaze to see the small screen on the cell-phone. She was rewarded with a picture of a stunned looking Graham and a shock-faced Aaron. Sark could almost see her mind working – back-pedalling to take on-board the new information whilst pulling herself together to get back in the game. It took her two seconds. He might almost have been impressed if she hadn't been annoying him so bloody much.
From a position of almost no leverage, she slammed down an ultimatum. "If you want me to help you – let my family go. It's the only way."
Sloane smiled, shifting back from his look of dead eyed rage to one of almost unctuous paternal concern. That's it, encouraged Sark telepathically, get it back under control now nice Uncle Arvie.
"That is not the only way, " said Sloane. He held up his own cell-phone and an audio message came spilling out, Graham Caplan's voice pleading: do whatever they want or they're going to hurt Aaron.
There was a silence as the words echoed in the air. Sark could feel James, her face draining white, quietly processing her options. He knew it wouldn't take long, she didn't have any.
When she eventually spoke, she was angry but quiet.
"Surprised you didn't just offer to pay me, there needn't have been any of this. I could have just done what normal folk do – worked for money."
Sark recalled his own plan, one not unakin to Dodgson's suggestion – well, it was always nice to know someone agreed with him. Too late now though.
"True, Dr. Dodgson," he responded, effectively excluding Sloane until he was sure the older man had a grip on himself, "but it might have been difficult to extract you from your current employ, and besides, people will do things for love which they would never do for money."
James looked up at him and gave a splutter of sour derision. "Yeah right, like you'd know anything about love."
Sark stared down at her, tutting in a parody of flirtatiousness. "Oh and now you're just trying to hurt my feelings."
"I'd have to find them first."
Sark's jaw shifted, and well it might, verbally she'd just punched him in it.
"So," he enquired, plastering a pleasant politeness over an annoyed scowl, "do we now have a 'yes' to co-operation? It's a clear enough choice Doctor, if you help us, you and your family will be released, or if you do not …" He let the unspoken alternative hang in the air. "Do we have an agreement Dr. Dodgson? I do hope so, and just to let you know, there's no help coming for you; we're not even in America, we're in Switzerland."
"Lucky me. I always wanted to visit Europe."
James Dodgson did battle against Sark's bland gaze whilst Sark firmly reminded himself that he held the world's non-blinking record.
A quote flitted across James' mind – something about a 'game for thugs played by gentlemen'.
"Let me guess," she said, "you play polo, right?"
Sark blinked but remained silent.
"Or then again," she continued, "maybe just tiddlywinks, but with live tiddlers."
"I repeat Doctor, do we have a deal?"
At Sark's words James' gaze cut away into a corner, mouth compressed in frustration. There was a long moment of silence in which she tried to think of any way forward other than the obvious: there wasn't one.
"Alright then you bullying ass-hats," she spat, "yes, you have a deal."
A semblance of calm proceeded to assert itself, Sloane no longer wanted to kill Dodgson, and Dodgson pretended she no longer wanted to kill both Sloane and Sark. Sloane emptied the leather document box and began spreading the manuscript pages about – introducing each sheet as though it were a favoured child. James began to focus on them and by the time Sloane made to leave she had every appearance of being absorbed.
On his way out Sloane turned. "By the way, Doctor, if I may? Other than what I've told you, do you know anything else about Milo Rambaldi?"
James gave it less than a second's casual thought before drawling her answer at him without looking up. "Sure, his name's an anagram for I am all morbid."
From her shackled position James Dodgson found herself glancing up, only to catch Blond Guy gazing at her and biting his lip, tugging at it with his teeth from the inside. Her face screwed up in resentment and not a little fear: pretty blond bastard!
Outside with Sloane, Sark nearly bit through his lip entirely when the elder man broke the bad news.
"You're on baby sitting duty Mr. Sark."
Sark fought down a flurry of annoyed thoughts, what won out was the realisation that he decidedly did not want to be in that role. Christ, he'd already shepherded Dodgson for 24 hours straight, he didn't need more of the same.
He asked an unnecessary question.
"I take it you mean baby sitting Dr. Dodgson, rather than her relatives?"
If Sloane had known Sark as well as Irina did, he would have immediately questioned as to why he was asking. Irina knew that Mr. Sark did not ask unnecessary questions and that when he did it was a stall for time, to enable him to get an agenda in order. But Mr. Sloane did not truly know Mr. Sark.
"Mr. Sark, after being kidnapped and abducted, the first thing Dr. Dodgson did on coming round was to insult us – at length and in depth. The woman is either the bravest and boldest kidnap victim I have ever encountered, or she is quite frankly the stupidest. As I am fully aware of the extent of her intelligence, my money has to be on brave and bold." He paused, "I feel a need to counterbalance Dr. Dodgson's intellect with your own abilities in the event of," he chose the word carefully, "contingencies." He meant if she had to be tortured, beaten or killed. "You are staying here with her. Arrange for alternative care of the bargaining chips." By 'bargaining chips' he meant the husband and the nephew. His tone toward Sark was once again peremptory, addressing him as though he were a private secretary.
Sark was annoyed at both the tone and the instructions but didn't show it - he was too keenly aware of the slithering sense of danger he got around Sloane, of the man's sinuous ability to slide inside another's mind and somehow press the weak spots. He suspected that to withstand a man like Sloane, a person would need a shield of unyielding moral rectitude and there he was at a disadvantage: he didn't have moral rectitude, he'd been subsisting on 'moral relativism' since aged four.
Well, he'd have to rely on the old trick of picturing someone in their underwear instead. He weighed up Sloane.
Yep, all grubby, grey and tired elastic.
He had used Sloane's speech-time to run through his own agenda.
No matter how he cut it, staying was more effective than going in achieving his and Irina's ends. If he left, Slone might abscond with Dodgson, or Sloane might hire someone to mind her who would beat her head in out of sheer annoyance at her. Sark couldn't afford to lose Dodgson. He repressed his exasperation – God, babysitting was going to be a chore – and instead nodded with his customary mask of pleasant, almost school-boy politeness.
"Certainly Mr. Sloane."
Author's notes: 'Artan Silenko's whores' is a reference to Auburn's very funny Sarkney fic, Bad Wigs, Black Leather and Guns.
The 'back of the sofa' joke is taken from Cassandra Claire's Draco Trilogy, but in turn she acknowledges that she got it from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
