Chapter 9: Schivar Di Vita - the action of voiding the opponent's sword by moving the body out of line.

Sark met Sloane over dinner in a discretely expensive restaurant: crystal, silver, linen, attentive but unobtrusive service, wines and food of a fine standard. The tables were spaced far enough apart to allow the moneyed clientele to hold private conversations without fear of indiscretion. There was no ambient music, the whisper of wealth was the only background noise required.

Sark had left two of his crew on guard over James Dodgson. She had a choice of dinner menu – greasy burgers, diet coke and what the Americans termed 'fries' but which Sark always thought of as 'chips'. The choice was with or without ketchup.

The two men occupied a quiet booth, having already ordered. If another diner paid attention to them – and none did – they would have appeared to be two successful businessmen, the elder graciously imparting experience and knowledge to the younger.

In the cocoon of the booth they conversed.

"We are in the process of building Rambaldi's greatest weapon," Sloane intoned, almost breathless with respect.

Sark kept his half-smile in place whilst ruthlessly suppressing the urge to slam down his fork. Sure, the 'greatest weapon' since the last and until the next! When is this all going to end?

He let none of his scepticism show as Sloane's eyes glittered in the ambient light – to an observer, Sark simply displayed his usual polite attention. Sloane went on, narrating the story of his grand Rambaldi Odyssey. Sark stopped listening and wondered at how intelligent people like Sloane, and particularly Irina, could have let themselves be sidetracked into a 30 year scavenger hunt. Sometimes he felt a great affinity with Jack Bristow's hard headed assessment: cut the Rambaldi crap.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a far-off mirror. A young man, slightly bored but successfully hiding it: blond, blue-eyed, beautifully dressed and impeccably mannered. He felt a jolt of annoyance at finding James Dodgson's description of him ribboning through his mind – Mr. Sark, the Lestat of Assassins – yep, scrupulously polite to all, right until the moment he killed them.

He stiffened with a slight prickle of annoyance at the memory of her contempt. Well, at least from this distance he couldn't see any bloody freckles in the mirror!He found himself grinding his jaw slightly. Freckles? – I do not have any sodding freckles!

He watched Sloane ramble on, his annoyance heightening. Christ, why did the man always look in need of a good shave? Regarding him from behind his mask of polite attention, Sark wondered for the first time exactly when it was that the younger Arvin Sloane had become this grimy souled old man; eaten up from inside by his own lust for power.

Grimy souled – where did you get that from Sarkey? He thought. You know you don't run to poetry.

With his expression of courteous interest still in place, Sark found himself weighing up Sloane's scars. The faint, slight run up one cheek where a knife had got him years ago, most obviously the scar where one finger had been re-attached following SD-6's run-in with McKenas Cole. In comparison, physically Sark was relatively unscarred, the major exception being an unpleasant little gash two inches above his left knee. He wasn't really aware of it, but he did carry worse scars, on the inside where no-one could see.

Sloane was still talking, in fact he'd never stopped.

"This small device which Dr. Dodgson is working on – obviously just a test but important enough in itself – should tell us if she is capable of assembling the much larger Rambaldi devices. How is she progressing?"

Sark gave himself a rallying pep-talk. Okay Sarkey, remember Sark's Rule Number 2: when in doubt, lie arse off.

That rule followed Sark's Rule Number 1: never be in doubt.

Sark had already game-planned his response to this question and had decided that whatever he told Sloane, it was not going to be the truth: that he had no clear idea where James Dodgson was up to and that the intervening days had been pure hell. As he sat in the booth he recalled that his first instinct had been to reject Sloane's baby-sitting plan, he knew now that he should have gone with that instinct and not rationalised it into something elseOnce over her worst fears and apprehensions James Dodgson had displayed an unfailing knack of finding the point of weakness – and hitting it. God, Sark thought, if only their position's weren't already set as adversaries she'd have made a wonderful ally. She had a sneering tone, a tongue that could clip a hedge, and she owned the last word.

He bitterly acknowledged that when it came to verbal combat, she was an opponent as good as himself. A sneaky inner voice contradicted him – she's not as good as yourself Sarkey, she's better!

His mouth compressed in chagrin at the thought.

She already had his crew verbally whupped, they were actually beginning to flinch whenever she addressed them. He recalled her sneering reaction to one of them mooting his role in a 'high-class' drug deal.

"A high-class drug deal?" her Bayou drawl had rung out, "ain't that an oxymoron?" She had looked the men up and down, obviously considering them to be complete idiots, "with the accent on the 'moron'?"

Sark had begun to coldly rebuke her.

"What?" she'd interrupted him, "you're gonna tell me I'm 'beyond belief'? I think the phrase you're lookin' for, Baby-Boy, is 'beneath' it."

Baby fucking Boy?

No wonder her abridged name of 'Dodge' had stuck with her. It summed her up. With her quick, nippy mind he couldn't catch up with her. If he moved to land an intellectual blow on her he found she wasn't there, she'd already swerved on – dodged him.

She'd kept jeering at his pristine appearance. He'd dropped a pen on the floor and had bent to pick it up, only to have her cat-call, "Whooh – now don't you bend down like that honey – you might rumple your suit."

"I think you'll find I have at least a dozen more, Doctor."

"Yeah, I heard Hermit crabs changed their shells a lot."

Hermit crab! Hermit crab? What the fuck was that all about?

When selecting her minders for tonight he'd purposefully chosen two who didn't speak English to ensure that she couldn't provoke them into beating her head in. He knew perfectly well she didn't speak any language other than English – well, she spoke something that passed for English.

He sipped his merlot and fought down his irritation, but even holding the wine glass brought on the instance of the recent occasion when she'd refused to drink because the glass they'd given her was dirty.

"And yeah," she'd sang out, "I am fully aware that stubbornness is a failing 'a mine."

He recalled how he had responded with a tight smile. "Actually Doctor, comparatively speaking I had stubbornness listed as one of your virtues."

Sark had congratulated himself on having the last word for once, unfortunately he'd congratulated too soon.

"Whooo!" she had called out mockingly, "strike one for Mr. Sark! Well, if that boy ain't finally getting up to speed." She had regarded him derisively. "Think I'll hold a small service of Thanksgivin' in honour."

He had surprised himself by trying to engage with her on some other, social, level. Almost as though he'd been trying to cut through the thickets between them, though God knows why he'd even wanted to. Preparing for a meeting once he'd changed his suit and had held up two ties, asking her opinion. "Black tie? Blue tie?"

She'd looked down at her own clothing, rejecting his advance with a shield of sarcastic disbelief. "Oh puhleeze. Do I look like someone who should get the casting vote on style?"

In the opulent gloom of the restaurant Sark placed his wine glass upon the linen tablecloth, through sheer will suppressing the tremor of annoyance in his hand.

Christ, no wonder her husband is through with her - the bloody woman!

He knew there was no point in physically hurting her – doing so would just panic her, slow her mind down – besides, she was so much smaller than he that it felt somehow unsavoury to even consider it. With the lack of any other option, he'd fallen back on the only other tool at his disposal: threats to the hostages. He had started with descriptions of what he would do to the husband.

"Fine," she'd shrugged, "go ahead, bastard's cheatin' on me anyhow."

Sark had closed his eyes, could he get any edge with this woman?

He had opened them to find her coldly staring him down.

"But if you touch my nephew," she had spat, "I'll never fuckin' help you, and you know it." She had grinned nastily. "Just out of sheer stubbornness you understand?"

He was sure it was a bluff. Put the kid in front of her, douse him with petrol and threaten to strike a match? - she'd co-operate alright. But not only would that be deeply unpleasant, it would be counterproductive, it would be inefficient.

And I don't do inefficient.

It would be inefficient because although he was sure it would get immediate short-term co-operation, it would engender a very different mid to long term response. A tongue that could clip a hedge? Shit, he wouldn't be a clipped hedge, he'd be fucking topiary if he ever hurt the kid. And that would be the least of it, he'd then be forced to kill her to stop her brilliant mind from devising a way to kill him. And a dead Doctor was absolutely not what he wanted.

Besides, douse a little kid with petrol and threaten to light a match? – he didn't fucking want do it, inefficient or not!

So where had that left him? As she did not care about the husband, and he could not touch the nephew, and he did not dare hurt her, that left him with … nothing. He was playing a round of high stakes poker with an empty hand and no money. Great.

No, he certainly wasn't going to tell Sloane that it had been one of his worst times since he had been initially delivered up into Project Birthday. Bringing his first contact with 'Project Birthday' back to mind made him wince. Even now, years later, he still felt embarrassed for his four year old self, at how shining faced and eager he had been on that first day; willingly racing up the steps and into the belly of the beast.

Because he'd overheard the word 'birthday' he had thought he was going to be given a present.

"Mr. Sark?"

Sloane's prompt got Sark's game face on. The one thing Sark had in this particular poker round was his conviction that James Dodgson had already cracked the Rambaldi problem. He knew it because she no longer bothered to keep up even the pretence of using the laptop, which meant she was confident she already had her bargaining chip: that she had the solution. That was the line he was going to take with Sloane.

"In response to your question I feel confident that Dr. Dodgson fears my authority," – my arse she does – "and is co-operating."

"Yes," nodded Sloane, "and by the way, my congratulations on your efficient method of handling the Schreiber problem; executing him in front of Dr. Dodgson certainly proved a point to her I hope."

Sark took another sip of his wine, gaining time. How much did Sloane really know about the exact motivation for that particular incident? "Thank you," he responded, "I felt you'd appreciate the economy of the matter. The man was attempting to defraud us and so had to die, I simply utilised his death to act as an encouragement to Dr. Dodgson."

Sark hoped that Sloane hadn't realised that his killing of the crooked German bond-trader had been an act of sheer desperation on Sark's part. He had not only hoped to scare James in to line, but her sneering disrespect to him had begun to erode his standing within his own crew and had necessitated that he re-establish command and control. He'd done it with a show of blasé brutality. He'd easily gotten his crew back in order, he wasn't so sure about James.

He'd conducted the interrogation in German so that although James would have a clear idea of what was going on, she wouldn't be exposed to the full horror of it. For some reason he hadn't wanted her going through the sheer hell of having to understand every word the poor bastard said when he started pleading for his life.

Because that would have been an unnecessary step, and I don't do unnecessary steps.

He recalled how even though the language barrier had spared her the worst, she had still screwed her eyes shut and clamped her hands over her ears, almost screaming herself, unable to bear it.

So much for a lack of empathy.

He uncomfortably realised that her reaction had been harder for him to bear than the pleadings of the man he'd shot.

"I feel confident that Dr. Dodgson will shortly be able to furbish us with something concrete," he confirmed.

"As she should, after all, she's had almost three days."

James' three days versus Sloane's thirty years? Sark decided that Sloane was an unreasonable bastard.

"I've decided to give her until this time tomorrow," Sloane continued. "I expect you to acquaint her with the time frame. If she has nothing by then, she is inadequate to the greater task."

Sark knew there was no need to enquire what would happen to her if she were deemed 'inadequate'.

Sloane paused his laden fork in mid-air and considered the situation. "I sense that Dr. Dodgson is infinitely capable of succeeding, even by tomorrow afternoon, but that she may require a little … encouragement. I suggest you start with the child."

Having issued Sark orders to torture a four year old in front of his aunt, Sloane slowly bit into the morsel poised before him and raised his eyebrows in a silent acknowledgement of its excellence. Having dealt with what he saw as the necessary unpleasantness of business, Sloane spent the rest of dinner in agreeable discourse, comparing various interpretations of Tosca.

Across town with a gut queasily trying to digest 'dinner' James sat, silently berating herself.

How could I be so stupid as to clue Sark in that I care for Aaron?

She determined that the next time that cold-assed, blond bastard came round, she would resolutely stay off the subject of her nephew.

Make like you just don't care! Not normally a problem for you! She told herself. He'll kill him! Sark is ruthless!

She recalled Sark executing the German guy. She hadn't really believed that Sark would do it. She was sure he was fundamentally just bluffing, that there would be a beating, some pain inflicted, but no death. She didn't know why but she had convinced herself that there was something essentially civilised about Sark. Some aspect of him that she could have reached and connected with.

Sark hadn't even blinked before he'd shot the man.

That poor man, begging for his life even though he was obviously going to die. Even with her eyes shut and her hands over her ears, she had not been able to stand it. She had barely been able to stifle her own screams, wanting to shriek – for chrissakes just kill him! - to end the horror.

She glared across at her two Neanderthal dinner companions. She would have insulted them to relieve the tension, except that she couldn't - they didn't speak English.

An hour after finishing dinner with Sloane, Sark paced his rented apartment.

Even if he was minded to start torturing four year old tots, he couldn't do it to this one, he didn't have him.

Mr. Six-Moves-Ahead-Of-The-Game had moved to Plan B and split the abductees up, making 'alternative arrangements' for the guarding of the kid - and Graham Caplan - well before Sloane had suggested it.

Thinking about Graham Caplan triggered a thought.

And did that marriage make any sense? Okay, she's an annoying little bat from hell, but even so what is she doing married to that whingeing plonker? Sark caught himself digressing. Bloody hell Sarkey, focus!

He had been faced with the task of mind the hostages, which to him meant keeping them hidden and safe. Hidden and safe from Sloane. If they were the only possible bargaining chips he had with James Dodgson, he couldn't let Sloane have the option of destroying them.

Nope, rather than have the two locked up in some filth-ridden cell where they could keep each other company catching skin diseases, he'd made the smart move.

Irina had helped him realise something a long time ago – when she'd mentored the 'Birthday Boys' at Russia's equivalent of a prep school for spies.

If you want to hide a key children, where do you hide it?

His six year old self had thought quickly – what would be a good answer? He stuck his hand in the air to get her attention, as school children do. 'Among a lot of other keys, Ms Derevko.'

He had thought quickly because he had learned through quiet observation that the bottom of the class – those who failed to please, failed to excel – 'disappeared' at the end of each term. He did not know where they went, but had a dark suspicion it was nowhere nice. He didn't recall it properly but he had actually learned the lesson that brutality was meted out the weak and defenceless long before the Project Birthday Academy. As an adult the memory of it came to him sometimes, masquerading as dreams of childhood pain and fear with people who might have been 'family'. Sark never remembered the dreams when he awoke, his mind wouldn't let him.

Nope, when faced with the problem of Aaron and his uncle, Sark had made the smart move and had put them each someplace safe where they would be hard to spot because they were surrounded by their own kind. For some reason it had pleased him to put them each some place pleasant – well, Aaron at least.

Graham Caplan had been stuck in an Amsterdam whorehouse, but little Aaron was amidst hundreds of other American shavers - having the time of his life at Disneyland Paris, tended by a nanny from one of Europe's elite childcare organisations who believed she was minding the offspring of two young marrieds second-honeymooning in Paris. He had been quietly pleased to hear Aaron sound so excited when he'd rung the nanny to let James hear him. He didn't like to think of the kid suffering. He was only four, a kid that young didn't deserve to be dragged into this espionage hell.

Reports suggested that Aaron had totally accepted the situation, having been told that his parents had given him the holiday as a present for being a good boy. But then Sark knew from experience, if you took a child when they were young enough you could get them to accept anything as normal. Anything.

Sark snapped-to and made his decision. He had no problem with dragging back Graham Caplan and re-acquainting him with the concept of marital fidelity via electric-shock therapy, but he drew the line at torturing little kiddies.

If Arvin Sloane wanted Aaron maimed or murdered, he'd have to hire Herod.

Sark bit his bottom lip. He'd have to pull off a risky manoeuvre – a rebellious one even –one which could potentially leave Irina and Sloane in a state of high piss off if he were found out. Ordinarily he'd be more worried about pissing off Irina, but right now he was more worried about pissing off Sloane. As far as either Sloane or Irina trying to kill him if it all went wrong, Irina might have a lot more motive, but Sloane would have a lot more opportunity.

He straightened. Well, it was a risk - particularly in the light of what else they already had planned for tomorrow - but he'd just have to run it. And okay, so Irina had rules, well actually she only had one rule - 'obey Irina' – but, dammit, sometimes rules just had to be broken!

Bugger it, he'd just have to move to Plan C!

In another part of the city, Sloane squirmed in his sleep. He always came to him in dreams – his master, Rambaldi. Blurred thoughts, ambiguous images, almost inchoate, often not consciously remembered upon awakening, but there in his head, nestling, burrowing.

He didn't know how Rambaldi came to him in dreams, he just knew that he did.

He certainly knew it was close to the time of The Telling, because Rambaldi had told him so, nudging the knowledge at him, urging him on to completion.

When The Telling came, thereafter would come Rambaldi. Their own irreligious Rapture.

And Sloane needed Rambaldi, he needed Rambaldi for his wife, Emily. She was dying of cancer but when Rambaldi returned he would bring with him the secret of life over death, the conquering of all illnesses, Rambaldi would save Emily. Sloane was sure of it. In his dreams Rambaldi had promised.

And surely Rambaldi would keep his promises?

Because of that, Sloane knew he would do anything to make The Telling happen. Anything.

He twisted in his sleep, sweating, anxious faced, trapped in his dream as he was trapped in the damp sheets, a man caught in a straight-jacket, an undead corpse twisting in its shroud.

Unconsciously he felt out for Emily in the bed, but she wasn't there; Emily was in quite another country. If she had been there, sleeping next to him, he would have damply curled into her, a scared animal comforted by her very presence, stilled, his dream driven from him.

But she wasn't there and he struggled on.