Chapter 10: Invitation – a positioning that intentionally exposes openings, intending to purposely draw attacks.
By 9.00 a.m. the next morning both Aaron and Graham were nearing Switzerland by train. Aaron was in a private carriage with his own puppet show and all the cake he could eat, Graham Caplan was drugged up and drunk, squashed in a second class compartment with a minder and a bunch of Inter-Railing students who ignored him.
A mercenary operating out of Basle had already been contacted to expect the two 'packages' for safe storage. The mercenary was known to Sark as a contact of Michael Vaughn's, the mercenary being under the apprehension that Vaughn was French Mafia. Sark had openly scoffed when he heard that one. French Mafia? As if they'd ever let that little pansy Vaughn join? The man was habitually scared of his own shadow!
Actually, Sark supposed Vaughn was just about competent in the field – well so long as Sydney Bristow was there to save him - but he wasn't quite someone he could see challenging City Hall over an absurdly high utilities bill. Too frightened of being told off.
Sark had been astounded at the mercenary's gullibility, but realised you could expect no better from a man whose centre of operations was the café his parents had left him. No wonder the only decent ballistic force the Swiss had ever produced was the Swiss Army Knife – that and the Vatican Guard, and everyone knew they wore skirts!
Well, it looked like even the preternaturally angst Agent Vaughn had his uses. As the CIA had Sark's flight-plan to Switzerland, Vaughn was bound to contact his Swiss mercenary, no doubt formulating some imminent Boys Own rescue plan.
By 11.00 a.m. both Aaron and Caplan were in the keeping of the mercenary, with the man under strict orders to keep them in the basement toilet of his cafe, but not to allow either to be harmed in any way. For the sake of appearances Sark had let Sloane know he was shipping them to the mercenary, but of course he hadn't told him where from. From now on in, with the boy and his uncle held only one floor below in the café, not even the CIA could screw it up, could they?
Just to make sure, at 11.05 a.m. Sark checked his watch as he settled down in a sniper position to cover the building from a nearby rooftop. He couldn't do Agent Vaughn's job inside the café, but he could certainly provide deadly fire to maximise the possibility of escape for the hostages if necessary. Besides, it gave him the chance to mini-cam the entire episode and he was going to need the evidence later.
He spent the intervening time doing callisthenics in his prone position. Only amateurs lay still and got cramp.
At 1.10 p.m. Vaughn finally arrived – with Sydney Bristow.
Sark grinned at the sight of her. Excellent! Vaughn couldn't be relied to shoot all the little ducks in a row, but Sydney could. With her there, the two hostages were practically home and dry. Through his sniper-sights Sark watched events unfold though the café window. After some swaggering preamble, Vaughn had slammed his mercenary contact's head down onto the counter, seemingly threatening to burn the man's face off with the combination of a lighter and a shower of schnapps. Sark found it hilarious: Agent Vaughn's showing off in front of his new girlfriend!
Sark mentally shrugged: well, let him.
Lying on the roof, Sark realised that his laughing reaction to the news of Sydney and Vaughn had not been a temporary blip; he couldn't recall precisely when it had happened but he was convinced that at some point he had simply stopped fancying Sydney Bristow. Was it around the time in Paldiski when he'd ordered her naked scrub-down to ensure her safety after the acid shower? No, he'd be lying to himself if he pretended that. He remembered the incident. At the time he could have claimed undisputed droit de seigneur and inflicted the affront of watching her being showered, smirkingly adding to her humiliation, but he hadn't. It hadn't been because of his raising as a English Public School gentleman – Sark had no illusions, he knew the beast in his nature could over-ride the gentleman at will and as necessary – but because he had been almost sick with anticipation at even the thought of seeing her naked. He wouldn't admit it then, but he knew it now: he'd been terrified of standing before her and breaking down.
Because I'm Mr. Sark and I don't do 'breaking down'.
After that he'd tried to re-boot the playfulness he'd detected during their run-in at FAPSE headquarters … you're cute but I'll pass … metaphorically pulling her pigtails when he met her next as she was disguised as a geisha in Tokyo.
When he'd subsequently slithered his way into SD-6, an unspoken incentive was the opportunity of getting close to her.
He'd actually had butterflies going in.
And then it had all turned to ashes. Flirt as he may, attempt to engage her as he might, it had all been one way traffic. She wouldn't, or couldn't, let go of the cold, superior, dismissive attitude she maintained toward him. Sometimes he had almost sensed that she wanted to drop it but felt compelled to continue. Was she terrified of being seen to treat him like a human being, fearful of what others might say? Then again, maybe she just didn't like him? Probably a good thing anyway, in this game relationships, feelings, were a perilous liability.
Besides, he was Mr. Sark, and Mr. Sark didn't do feelings: even with his bank balance he couldn't afford them, they cost too much.
He felt the rifle-stock shift against his jaw as he keenly watched events unfold through his scope.
Whatever Sydney's motivation for rejecting him he knew that he had lost interest, he just wasn't sure precisely when. A while back? Recently? Maybe Sydney's American Princess, hard-to-get routine had simply gotten stale and unrewarding? Given his innate lack of introspection Sark didn't realise that to him, a man with an impeccable taste for the complexities of the finest wines, Sydney's adamant refusal to go beyond a one-note emotional response would have grown tedious in any case.
He thought it was strange really, that when he'd first seen her in a shoot-out at a Russian factory he had gotten the feeling that he had known who she was, that he had seen her before. He supposed he had seen her photograph in files. Well now it was almost as though he knew her too well, so much so that he told himself he was sick of her.
He watched her disappear down the stairs in the café and then come back up with the uncle and nephew. At 1.16 p.m. he covered everyone's exit and resisted a darkly playful urge to shoot Michael Vaughn in the arse just for the fun of it. At 1.17 p.m. it was all clear.
Excellent Sark reflected, Aaron would be at the U.S. embassy in time for afternoon tea, if the Americans did such a thing.
He deftly bagged his equipment and checked his diver's watch as he made for a nearby black van. Good timing: he'd be prompt for the day's second round of larcenous mayhem.
