Chapter 11: Al La Macchiaan informal rough-and-tumble duel "out in the woods", often by groups as well as individuals.

Three hours later Sark and Sloane had successfully robbed a bank, stealing the prototype of a magnetometer James Dodgson had been working on at Neotech.

Both men knew that they'd need it later.

Sark reflected that the jaunt hadn't gone utterly smoothly - did it ever? – but that the disruption hadn't been anything he couldn't handle. After all, it had only involved extracting Sloane and the magnetometer from a speeding car as driven by a hell-bent Sydney Bristow.

When Sydney and Vaughn had turned up mid-heist, Sark had only been partly surprised, after all, he already knew they were in town; but even he had been taken aback to see them turn up at the bank while Sloane was still in it. It had emerged that they'd tracked Sloane to his whereabouts by tracing cell-phone calls between Sloane and the Swiss mercenary holding the Caplans. Sloane had been checking up on the hostages. Checking up on Sark.

Sark sighed, Sloane always had been an annoying bastard.

Approximately five hours after watching Aaron being swept to safety, one hour after getting Sloane calmed down after the magnetometer stunt, and two hours before Sloane's eight o'clock deadline on James' life, Sark moved down the stairs to the lower basement of a disused factory that had once produced fondue sets. It was where they kept James Dodgson.

In a day that had seen him rob a bank, engage in a high-speed pursuit, and outwit the CIA – twice – he sensed this was going to be the hard part.

He didn't know why he was so anxious. As a man who was totally task orientated, Sark avoided self-analysis – in his darker moments he suspected it was because he was frightened of what he might find inside – so when it came to self-questioning he didn't have the tools for it.

A man he had once gone up against, who had known a little of Sark's involvement in Project Birthday, had sneeringly explained to him that the reason why Sark was so self-controlled was because in his life he had never really had any control at all. The big choices, of who he was, of what he was, had been taken from him aged four.

Sark had shot him straight in the face.

Moving down the stairs, he didn't recall that previous incident, he was too busy pondering how to play the current one. Well, he'd have to wing it. No time for anything else. Mr. Sark didn't like 'winging it', Mr. Sark liked plans, objectives, strategies, but around James Dodgson plans seemed to go awry anyway so … he summoned all his wits and resolve and turned into the room where he knew James sat: time to face it.

There were three guards there, he motioned them to leave.

He saw James stiffen warily as he entered, and then watched her stiffen even more so at her realisation that they were now alone. He supposed it was only natural that she be more cautious of him now, after all, she had seen him kill a man in cold blood: up close and completely impersonal so to speak.

In actuality James was suppressing her screaming need to ask about Aaron. She didn't dare look up at Sark in case her famously limited self-control snapped and she blurted out to know where he was. That would give Sark even more leverage over her than he already had, and would further endanger Aaron.

James had reasoned that Aaron's greatest source of protection was Sark believing she didn't care enough about her nephew to make it worthwhile hurting him.

After the guards had gone, Sark circled the room like a light plane circling a landing field in poor weather: hesitant, unsure of whether it can put down. James maintained her focus on the laptop.

The silence in the room was alive. To his amazement, Sark broke first.

"It's getting hot in here."

Oh for fuck's sake Sarkey – that's right, lead with your jaw!

He winced at his own stupidity. He was really going to pay for that one. James didn't let him down.

"And what am I supposed to do?" she snapped, "invite you to 'take off all your clothes'?"

Yep, his slow wide serve had gotten the response it deserved: a two-fisted back-hand, straight down the line.

He moved to the air-conditioner control, his voice betraying nothing of his self-annoyance. "I'll see if I can get it to improve."

"Sure, and if it won't co-operate, just threaten to shoot it."

Knowing he had no qualms about using his gun, James' voice shook as she said the words 'shoot it'.

Sark felt his jaw tighten with aggravation.

Christ - could she just cut me some slack? - I'm trying to be nice!

Well, he couldn't complain, hadn't he known this would be the hard part? But did she have to make it quite so bloody difficult? Hadn't she learned anything from yesterday's execution? He turned to her, speaking more harshly than he intended.

"Doctor, don't you think it would behove you to at least try to be friendly? You are, after all, in the hands of captors - it might be best if they at least liked you."

Sark mentally slapped himself: they? Who the fuck's 'they' Sarkey? It's 'we', remember?

James gave way to a sudden disbelief and fear.

"What?" she screamed, " I should smile and simper like a good little girl?" Her face was a contorted mask of angry disbelief. Sark was almost taken aback. "Yeah, I can see that me bein' kidnapped, drugged, threatened with torture and having my family held in jeopardy would make us the best of friends. Hey, just think, in three years time we can go around tellin' folks how we first met!"

Sark was astonished. He found himself in the strange position of staring blankly into the space between them and feeling…what? Uncertainty? Embarrassment? As though he'd been slapped in the face? He realised he'd forgotten how to precisely define some emotions, and while he was about it, what was that funny fluttery feeling in his stomach? James railed on.

"Let's just understand somethin' junior," she screamed, rising as much out of her chair as her shackles allowed. "I am being held here against my will! I have been dragged off the streets and into this world of spies and ancient devices and I'm smart enough to know that I'm probably gonna die here – me and my family along with me! And if I do co-operate then I'm probably gonna end up buildin' some goddamn Doomsday Weapon that the Government is gonna get me for. So however you look at it you smirking, blond bastard, I am totally fucked!"

Sark felt a certainty arise from out of his confusion. She was expressing fear and rage? Good! At least that was a reaction he could predict and work with, one he understood! Sark's uncharacteristic flush of doubts left him. He knew how to play this scene now, he knew how to play it to win.

When he spoke, his voice was very calm.

"Quite Doctor. You are, as you so quaintly put it: 'totally fucked'. So, as things can't get any worse for you, you might as well listen to the comprehensive offer I'm about to make. Let us hope that you accept it."

At L.A. CIA there was an emergency debriefing on both the Caplan rescue and the magnetometer heist. Jack, Kendall, Weiss and Marshall were in the Ops room at L.A., Sydney and Vaughn were live from Switzerland via satellite link.

Dixon wasn't there.

Not for the first time Jack wished Dixon had been willing to merge with the CIA, but the man was still estranged from operations, still coming to terms with his sense of betrayal. Jack knew that Dixon felt most betrayed not by having been duped by SD-6, but by having been left in the dark by the CIA, by having been played by his own side. Jack knew all about that, he'd been there, done that and been handed the T-shirt. Jack wanted Dixon back. Dixon was a man who could talk sense into Sydney and his field instincts were usually spot on. Having Dixon's calm support in analysis was something Jack missed at times, one of those times being now.

There were occasions when Jack privately labelled L.A. CIA 'Dumbass Central' and it was days like today that reminded him why.

Kendall was fulsomely complimenting the team, a.k.a. himself, on the successful rescue of the 'Caplans'. They hadn't yet gotten onto the less successful loss of Sloane and the magnetometer. When it came to that, Kendall would be berating the team, a.k.a. not himself.

"Excellent work Agents Bristow and Vaughn. Vaughn, good call on that mercenary connection. East Coast will be impressed."

Over the slightly grainy com-link, Vaughn's grin of modest self-congratulation could be seen, as could Sydney's more pensive, quizzical look.

Watching her expression, Jack felt proud. His girl may be have been an occasional brat in her private life, but get her in the field and her game-player's instincts kicked right in. Jack knew from the slight frown on Sydney's face that she suspected there was something amiss with the Caplan rescue; there was: it had been far too easy. Jack cut Kendall off in mid-spiel.

"Oh please. Have we all taken leave of our senses?" He paused to make sure he had everyone's attention. "The extraction was far too easy. Two of the captives were found in the actual basement toilet of our mercenary's front - a café? It couldn't get any more ridiculous!"

Jack found himself momentarily distracted by noticing that Weiss was wearing a soup-stained shirt and a tie that was an offence to the retina. He saw that Marshall Flinkman was also staring at the tie.

"Wow Weiss," Marshall interrupted, "really cool tie!"

Jack reflected that some days the place was sheer Kindergarten and re-imposed an iron grip on Dumbass Central.

"Since when did a man like Sark award jobs based on who made the lowest stupidity tender?"

His point, once made, was obvious. Sark didn't hire dumb. So how had they gotten the hostages so easily? The room and the uplink connection went silent. Vaughn's face fell. Kendall's ego needed a splint.

Conversation and chatter gradually re-asserted itself as they debated the possibilities. Vaughn was still plugging for the 'brilliant hunch' line. No-one else could suggest any other seemingly logical explanation for events, even though they all knew that the 'brilliant hunch' stank.

Marshall piped up cheerfully. "Hey, maybe Sark let them go?" There was a stunned silence as everyone – on both sides of the Atlantic - stared at him. Marshall felt himself shrinking in his seat. "I mean, he's really not that bad. Well, at SD-6 - he used to come and see me? - he was always - "

"Marshall? Shut up!"

Marshall dipped his head at Kendall's order and thought that maybe it would be best if he just went back to playing Level III of Attack Of The Killer Chipmunks in his head.

The debate resumed, with people chipping in with half-ideas and circling around concepts, and all coming up with nothing. No-one noticed that Sydney, by her standards, was almost silent. Head down, hair hanging to obscure her face, shoulders slightly hunched, she projected the air of someone who was struggling with their own not very comfortable thoughts. The one person who would have noticed was Jack, but he was deep in considerations of his own.

He was pondering on Marshall's comment.

Could it really be that the hostages had been found because they were meant to have been found? What were the odds? … A damn sight higher than mere coincidence, that's for sure … Certainly Sloane wouldn't do that, he didn't have the style … but Sark?

The thought was astonishing. Why would Sark deliberately arrange the secret release of hostages? What was the advantage to him? Well … not unless … Jack was struck by a thought so bizarre that he kept it to himself.

Not unless it was some extraordinary, fucked-up gesture of goodwill from Sark to Dr. James Dodgson.

"Regard it as a rather fumbling gesture of goodwill, Doctor."

In the Swiss basement, Sark was detailing his 'comprehensive offer' to James Dodgson.

James had decided to listen. After all, what was it going to cost her, three minutes of her life? May as well hear him out.

He had told her of the day's events, well, at least that part concerning her husband and nephew. To back it up he'd showed her his mini-cam recording of the incident. James looked so sceptical that Sark thought she might just be on the verge of outright, disbelieving laughter.

"What? You want me to work with you – so you let Aaron and Graham go?"

"Doctor, as you can see from the recording, if I had been of a mind to, I could have quite easily shot both CIA agents and recaptured your relatives."

"How do I know it was you shooting the film?"

The mini-cam record was still playing. Right on cue the camera turned around to catch a sardonic Sark waving directly into the lens.

James found herself wrangling a sudden, unwanted thought: shit, that bastard's photogenic! She batted it away.

"How do I know these 'agents' aren't just two of your own people, that this thing wasn't staged and you still have Aaron and Graham?"

Sark purred to himself, hands clasped behind his back, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had always adored the company of brilliant women, and James was such an exceptionally clever little beast. There she was with her screwed up, questioning little face, duking it out with him and not just accepting his word for any of it. Anyone weaker would have just mindlessly accepted it, giving in to their need to believe that it was true, that Aaron and Graham were free. But she? She was pushing, closing down on all the angles, looking for loopholes, proving to herself that it was true even at the risk of finding out it wasn't.

God, he loved smart women.

"Why would I trick you with that ploy Doctor? If at some point I were to reveal I still held them, it could only be for the purposes of pressuring you by hurting them and if I thought that were a viable line of persuasion, I would have already done it." He knew she saw the logic of it and pushed his point. "Dr. Dodgson, holding your relatives was of no advantage to me. Frankly, I think you'd work better for me if you were freed of the anxiety for their safety. Letting them go was the wise move, after all, I know I certainly won't get your full concentration or co-operation if your relatives are harmed." He considered his next choice of words. "And … whilst I would not be so foolish as to hurt them, I am aware that Mr. Sloane is … less circumspect. In short Doctor, I have removed two pieces from the board which were of no use to me, but instead essentially posed a danger to my game; and I like to think that the manner in which I chose to do so will somewhat mitigate against your dislike of me."

James' gaze hit him in a flat stare, her lip curling. "You know, you must be the only person I know who speaks in paragraphs?" Her voice rose a notch. "You killed that German guy right in front of me! How am I supposed to trust you having seen you do that?"

"I'm not asking you to trust me Doctor, I'm asking you to complete a body of work for me. As it is," he inwardly winced at the next two words he was about to use, " 'German Guy' was attempting to cheat my associates and I of tens of millions of dollars. He, unlike you, actively sought to work with us, that he attempted a financial double-cross was an error on his part."

She collected herself. "Okay, now that you've given up the hostages why should I co-operate with you at all?"

He smiled demurely, "Because I still hold you." He unholstered his gun and laid it on the table, letting it speak for him – they both knew he was quite capable of using it. He continued speaking. "To clarify the situation, Uncle Arvin is going to come though those doors in about two hours and, I might say, he's rather put out at the CIA having retrieved your relatives. He also seeks some concrete evidence of your 'worth' as regards Rambaldi. In his current mood, if you are not able to provide it I know he will kill you and then attempt to find someone else who will help him. As I suspect that you have already solved the puzzle with the artefact, I strongly suggest you furbish him with the solution - and that we carry on from there."

James forced herself to appear calm. Thank God she'd already worked out that wand crap. "Carry on?" she queried, her voice trying to give away nothing.

Sark was amused at the way her voice wobbled when she was stressed.

"This," he indicated the work on the tabletop, "was merely a test. The ultimate task is the compilation of a much larger and more complex Rambaldi artefact. That is the real work you will do for Sloane – for me."

In truth he didn't have a clue what they were building next and didn't care. All he was interested in was building something alarming or alluring enough to tip the CIA into letting Irina go out after Sloane. Once she was out, he would extract her.

James spoke up. "How do I know you won't just kill me when I'm done?"

Sark smirked. "It's no secret to the US Government that Mr. Sloane and I hold you captive. They know perfectly well who we are and what we look like. They are also painfully aware that we are interested in amassing, using and profiting from Rambaldi devices. After you have compiled the main device, it will be safe to release you as there will be nothing you can tell them that they won't already know. There will be absolutely no point in killing you."

Sark wondered if she'd buy that. Maybe it would turn out to be true?

"Why shouldn't I just tell Sloane what you did with Aaron and Graham?"

Sark's smile was angelic. "Go ahead - he won't believe you."

She eyed him sourly, he was right of course: the clever little bastard.

"Besides," continued Sark, his voice having the tonality of poisoned honey, "right now I'm the nearest thing to an ally you've got. If you prompt Sloane to attempt to kill me, then all you may be left with is an angry and unpredictable Sloane."

"Well I'll give you one thing, you're a logical little fucker. Got all the angles covered, ain't ya?"

Sark struggled to keep a grin of sheer self-congratulation off his face: he failed. "True, I have. It's terribly déclassé to congratulate oneself I know, but really, sometimes I am rather wonderful aren't I?"

James' face slid into an expression of eye-rolling resignation as she regarded him, and then she perked up. "Hey, d'ya think the church still does excommunications? Maybe I could order you one over the phone?"

Sark could hardly keep the laughing purr out of his voice at her oblique insult. "Does that indicate compliance Doctor?" He had her in a corner and they both knew it. He looked like a cat who held a mouse in its clamped, smiling jaws, the flickering tail still dangling out.

James' shoulders slumped. She had been outmanoeuvred on this one. Sark had stitched her up. She parodied the line from Casablanca, drawling it out in her Louisiana twang, voice thick with disdain. "Gee, Blond Guy, I think this may be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Sark graciously took James' comment as a statement of goodwill, well, as a statement of as good-as-it-was-going-to-get will, and awaited Sloane's arrival. When an embittered Sloane did arrive, he was given a complete run down of the schematics for compiling the Rambaldi Wand - a harmonics device that could realign the molecular structure of small quantities of base metals – among other things it would effectively enable the user to turn lead into gold.

Sloane's eyes gleamed with sheer greed, almost normal for him. In truth he was exultant. Viewing her work he knew that his aspiration was within reach. Dodgson could do it, she could build The Telling.

Watching Sloane and Sark together, James reflected that she had been given an option equivalent to that of choosing between the two leaders of the French Revolution: Sark's Danton or Sloane's Robespierre. The choice of a hypocrite versus a fanatic. She decided she had chosen wisely, given a choice like that you took the hypocrite every time. Unlike the fanatic the hypocrite at least knew when they were going too far, even if they still went there anyway.

As Sloane's fulsome praise washed over her she wished she hadn't instinctively compared them to Danton and Robespierre after all. She uncomfortably recollected that in the eventual showdown between the two, Danton had lost. When Danton's conscience had rebelled and he had finally moved against Robespierre in an attempt to halt the bloodshed, Robespierre had arranged Danton's execution. Robespierre had met his own gory end shortly after of course, but not before Danton was dead.

It was a disquieting comparison.

Unaware of her thoughts, Sark watched Sloane and James and congratulated himself: the first hurdle crossed, that much closer to springing Irina and hey, hardly anyone dead yet.

Upon Sloane's departure, Sark quickly arranged for himself and James to remove to another location. He decided they should move into Russia – a place as far removed from America and the CIA as they could get. Sloane would travel on later, after he had visited his wife in Italy.

Sark spent the night making arrangements. Sloane spent the night travelling to Italy. And James? For some reason she had the best night's sleep she'd had in days.

An ocean away, Jack had gone down to Irina's cell before he'd gone home for the night, at midnight. Jack rarely went 'home' any earlier, why bother? – there was no-one there.

Besides, tonight his mind had been chasing down on possibilities.

If he had been right about Sark deliberately giving up the Caplans, then Sark must have known that Vaughn would contact the mercenary, and for that Sark must have known that the CIA had his flight plan to Switzerland.

Jack didn't know why, he didn't even know how, seeing as she was trapped an underground glass cell a continent away from Sark and was monitored by permanent surveillance, but God did he have the feeling that the glittering presence of Irina Derevko was at the back of all this somehow.

He was going down to see her for intel.

He told himself there was no other reason.

He certainly told himself that the pounding heartbeat in his chest was not anticipation.

He stared at her through the glass, determined not to let any feelings show – determined not to have any feelings. Irina had no such reservations, she came up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"Jeez, Jack - it's the early hours of the morning. What's the matter, suddenly realise you've got tomorrow's date down in your diary for the arrival of the Apocalypse but had forgotten to let anyone know?"

Jack said nothing, but felt his heart give a slow, lazy thump as his unwavering gaze took in the kitten-pretty face on the other side of the glass. Why could this woman still make his blood sing, even after a 20 years gap? How could she still make him want to laugh out loud at one of her casual throw-away lines, even after all she'd done? He saw her look up at him out of one sleep-laden eye, the other closed against the harsh light, and suddenly realised he'd come unprepared. After all, not only was he uncomfortably unsure of what he felt, but what was there to say? 'Hey Irina, are you scheming behind our backs with Sark?' Sure, she'd really admit to that one.

Irina's expression began to unfurl as she increasingly awoke: she looked at him with genuine amusement and not a little puzzlement, as though she were pondering something. In response, Jack readied himself: okay, what was she going to hit him with this time?

As her mind got into gear Irina was pondering alright – she was pondering why Jack was there. Was it about the Swiss endeavour? Sark had signalled her about it, a short burst to let her know that despite the CIA's efforts, he now had the magnetometer which would help Dodgson in her Rambaldi calculations. In his message to her, Irina had been puzzled at something: Sark hadn't included anything about Sydney, even though Irina rationalised that Sydney must have been there. Odd, Sark normally had something in his codes about Sydney, like a boy who had a secret crush and couldn't quite stop talking about the girl concerned. Irina had always been very willing to indulge him in it, even before she'd unearthed that recent Rambaldi page that had told her far more about him than she had ever suspected.

But then … maybe she secretly had suspected it all along?

She snapped back to the current issue: was Jack's visit about Switzerland? About Sydney and Sark? Irina decided upon some explorative needling. Well to start with, she thought, may as well get him on the topic of boys and girls. Her tone was secretive, whispering, conspiratorial.

"Jack? You know when Sydney brought home her first boyfriends, all those filthy boys who were just scheming to get at your little girl? What did you actually do to those lads?"

Jack stared at Irina and kept a totally poker face. Why the hell was she asking? … May as well answer. "I terrorised the first one who came calling and let word get round."

Irina's spontaneous laughter started off as a burble and then rose to fill the space between them. Correspondingly, Jack's mouth pulled up slightly at one corner in what may or may not have been a smile.

Irina processed his answer. Not laying his cards out huh? May as well jump straight in on a hunch then. She smiled, easy, expansive.

"He's really not that different from you Jack."

Jack's face straightened in a sudden surge of suspicion. Here it comes, she's revving up for something.

"Who's not that different?" Dammit, why did I even give her the edge by asking?

"Sark."

Jack blinked. Irina mentally punched the air – Got you!

Jack looked at Irina – Goddammit she was getting more out of him than he was getting out of her! If she knew anything, he knew then that she wasn't damn well telling.

Irina looked at Jack – he'd gotten his defences up, if anything odd had gone on in Switzerland, she knew then that he wasn't damn well telling.

They both thought: time to ring the bell on this round and retire.

Jack nodded, formal, proper. "Goodnight Irina."

Irina nodded, impish, naughty. "Goodnight Jack."

As her mother and father toyed with each other like cat and mouse – neither quite sure who was the cat and who was the mouse - Sydney sat on a night-flight military transport returning from Europe, the rescued hostages asleep in the hold.

Vaughn typed up his field report on a laptop a little distance away, occasionally looking up at her with a fond and acknowledging smile.

Sydney had managed to smile back, well she had hoped it had looked like a smile.

She was pre-occupied with her own ill at ease thoughts that had been digging away at her since the video-comm. It didn't help that her recent bruising encounters with her parents had made her feel slightly distant from Vaughn. She covertly glanced across at him. It wasn't so much what her mom and dad had said concerning him – yeah, like they could give advice on coupledom! – but because of what she'd detected as Vaughn's essential unwillingness to talk about his evasions over Jack. She felt vaguely questioning of him.

That wasn't the specific cause of why she was so silent just now though.

Her reason? She was feeling like a kid at school who was hiding a guilty misdemeanour, who felt they ought to 'fess up' but didn't quite have the nerve to do it.

She felt the same great, squirming, almost fearful discomfort she'd had as a child after her mother had 'died', when she had habitually sat folded up, cross-legged on her bedroom floor, hiding alone under a makeshift tent made out of a blanket and a broomstick: safe, keeping the world out. She didn't remember it, but she'd learned another trick then. When she had to go outside her tent, she hid inside herself instead, pretending she was someone else. Without her tent, she had hid inside her own skin.

Sydney leant forward unhappily, arms folded across her stomach, as though rocking herself. Marshall's debriefing comment – that maybe Sark had let the hostages go - had struck a chord with her, but all she had done was say nothing as others scoffed at even the possibility that the heartless Mr. Sark might know just one crumb of human decency. Sydney twisted uncomfortably in her flight seat, her conscience landing repeated thumps on her. She knew she should have spoken up, she should have offered the corroborating evidence, she should have mentioned what had happened earlier that very same afternoon: that during Sark's high-speed extraction of Sloane he'd had the plain and open chance to kill her at point-blank range and had deliberately not taken it.

Sydney unthinkingly and repeatedly rubbed a hand to and fro across her mouth - a gesture of anxiety.

She was on a plane full of people, but all the company in the world would have left her alone with her thoughts.

Irina watched Jack turn and go as though if she could just stare hard enough she could gain information merely by looking at his back. She couldn't. Technically, as they had never been divorced, she gazed at the man who was still her husband. Immensely tall and solidly broad, a human being built on a grand scale. Oddly handsome, a redoubtable intellect, an iron will, and utterly uncaring of what those about him thought of him.

He was overwhelmingly the coolest guy she had ever met.

Damn! She spun a half-turn on her heel, her arms crossed. She didn't know precisely what, but something must have snagged Jack's interest to bring him down here. Unless it really was only just the magnetometer and he were fishing for random intel? No, she decided, not Jack, he didn't do random. It was definitely Sark, but what? Had something happened between her protégé and her daughter … ?

She was not overly worried that it would have been anything overwhelmingly negative. She knew, even though each had never rationalised it, and certainly never to her, that neither of them had seriously tried to kill the other. Ever.

That history of holding off made sense – when you knew what she now knew.

She wandered back to her cot. Sydney and Sark. A stunning combination. Her daughter's fire and Sark's poised control. Sydney's innate warmth to counterbalance Sark's essential reserve. Sark's fundamental sense of restraint to rein in Sydney's emotional self-indulgence. If they could just manage to spend ten minutes in a room together without either going for a gun, they would be an unbeatable combination. Given what they were up against, Irina knew they would have to be.

She lay on her cot, ankles elegantly crossed, hands folded loosely across her abdomen, reflecting.

But … did she want Sydney mixing with Sark, if she had a choice? It was ridiculous, there was no choice, she'd sensed that when she'd recently unearthed the page which had lain hidden for centuries, but …

Sark was an extraordinary individual, as much as Sydney, but 'extraordinary' had it's drawbacks – for both of them. Sydney was the distillation of a line of powerful Russian matriarchs. Women who, down the generations, had chosen their many lovers, discarding those deemed unworthy, mating with those whom they selected as a fitting father for any of their children. That shameless, selective strain ran through Sydney, but Irina felt that mired in her modern romantic mores Sydney couldn't handle it. For his part Sark was the descendent of a line of great Russian patriarchs. Controlling, powerful men as possessed of a compulsion to bequeath their genetics on to the next generation as Irina's line of great women had been to bequeath theirs.

And that was the difficulty. What was that old phrase, maternity is a matter fact, paternity is a matter of opinion? The Derevko women had obviously known their offspring were theirs, the Lazarey men had been forced to make sure that their children were so. As such, with the women they chose as acknowledged mates, the male line was hard wired with an unyielding, possessive jealousy. They had to be, otherwise their genetic line would have dissipated centuries ago in a welter of deceit, drowned out by the bastard children of other men.

She recalled something Sark had once said to her during one of their more open and relaxed after-dinner conversations.

Irina, sex is a power struggle, it's an issue of dominance and submission. He'd raised his wine glass to her and laughed. Anyone who doesn't know that just hasn't had a really good fuck.

He'd been 17 when he'd said that. He had lived at such speed, at such ferocious intensity, that at 17 he already thought he knew everything life was about. At the time Irina had laughed back, whole-heartedly delighting in her young protégé's worldly cynicism, but now that her own daughter could really become involved with him …

Irina was a woman of great perception, she understood fully that love was all about equality, it was about what you gave rather than what you took, what you surrendered, not what you conquered. It was about all the things Sark didn't do. He didn't give – not truly - he didn't surrender – not really - he expected to be in control, moving others about like pieces on a chessboard. Those were among the very factors she admired about him. They were also the very reasons why Irina instinctively knew that if Sark ever suddenly found himself at the mercy of being in love with another, then he would fight it every inch of the way: trying to destroy it for fear of it destroying him.

Irina knew that Sark had no sexual interest in herself, any potential interest between them had been blotted out by their variation of an almost mother/son relationship, so she could only guess with a vague anxiety at how his need for control and his iron possessiveness would express itself with someone he actually loved.

She feared the results might not be pretty.

The next day at a deserted, private airfield in eastern France, Sark extracted Dr. James Dodgson to Russia. Naturally she tried to escape before they boarded the plane. Twice. The first time was when she'd gone for the van door as it had pulled up at a stop-light on the journey there, a desperate ploy but who knew, they might have left it unlocked? The second was at the airfield before boarding the small business jet parked there. It was as desperate a try as the first, but with the visceral urge of an animal that senses its last chance for freedom, she'd gone for it anyway. Swallowing her fear, she had struggled past the guard who was pulling her out of the van, breaking free and racing across the tarmac. She kept running on instinct, even though she could see that there was no place to go and no help for miles. She expected Sark to let off a warning shot at any second.

Instead, all she could hear was the bastard's genuinely amused laughter. Far from being angry, Sark found himself grinningly enjoying her efforts; surveying her with a slightly distant, predatory gaze. In place of letting off a warning shot he set off after her at a lazy run, picking up speed and accelerating into her.

They could not have been more opposite. Sark - wearing a black 8000 suit as casually as other men wore sweats – exuded a playful athleticism. James - dirty, dishevelled, badly dressed - had obviously always been the last to be picked for any sports team. He caught up with her easily, catching her round the waist, spinning her up off her feet and carrying her back. She was so small and lightweight that he didn't really need both arms, he could almost have tucked her under just one as he strolled back.

"You'll never get away with this!" she screamed, furiously trying to prise free from his grip and having no effect whatsoever.

"I'm trying to remember Doctor, but haven't you said something like that before? If I recall," his voice was all cool amusement, "you were wrong then too."

"You are one smug bastard! - do you know that?"

"Ah, you highly educated geniuses – such witty rejoinders."

Laughing, he flung her bodily into the plane where she landed on her back. He dropped down next to her, swiftly cuffing her to a seat stanchion. She continued to struggle even though her endeavours were futile. Above her, Sark was thoroughly enjoying the situation, a light smirk playing about his mouth.

He found himself making no effort to get up. Instead he shifted to a crouch, elbows on knees, hands dropping casually into the gap between them, looking down at her with his detached gaze and that tilted-jaw way that was so particular to him.

She really was quite fascinating in her own odd way, he reflected.

"God loves a tryer James." He raised his eyebrows demurely, looking down upon her, and then gave a moue of commiseration. "Such a pity I'm on the side of the Devil."

She spat out her exasperated disgust. "Could you be any more annoying?"

He laughed and then was suddenly all business, bouncing to his feet and barking orders at the man in the flight cabin to get the plane started. As the engines roared into life Sark made his way forward and took the pilot's seat. He ordered everyone off but James. His crew departed without complaint, they had already been paid, and goddamn it but they were sick of the screaming American. The plane taxied and took off. Over the sound of the rushing engines Sark could still hear James roaring at him from inside the passenger cabin; shrieking that he was an ass-hat piece of pond-scum and adding, somewhat illogically he reflected as she was actually on the flight: and I hope you crash, you butt-beagle!

Butt-beagle? Sark bit down on his bottom lip, grinning. He loved American swear-words. So inventive, so utterly sneering.

He made the engines scream as they ripped off into the sky. There they were, no flight plan, no air crew to say where they'd gone, no evidence of their destination. Nothing before them but blue skies. When they landed and were a short but safe distance from the jet, he'd flick a couple of switches and watch it blow up. He'd pick up his new crew later.

Remembering Shipman airfield, he had made sure that there would be no evidence whatsoever to indicate where they had gone to or where they had come from.

Sark occasionally made mistakes, but he never made the same one twice.

As the plane flew on he felt calm, poised, his customary sense of control reasserting itself. He realised he hadn't felt this clear since this whole business with the kidnapping had begun. He congratulated himself, he had swept the board of all extraneous pieces: there was no Aaron to worry about, he'd got rid of the husband and there was no bloody CIA. A thought came to him: most importantly there was no irritating, annoying, aggravating, self-righteous Sydney Bloody Bristow coming along to bollocks things up for him!

A fleeting and unwanted memory of Sydney came to him from the incident when he'd extracted Sloane from her speeding car. His mouth compressed in irritation at the fact that he was even bothering to recall it. But he was though, wasn't he? His face clouded with annoyance. Okay, so he hadn't felt nothing when he'd seen her, but what had he felt? He refused to dwell on it and told himself instead that … he'd felt fucking annoyed at her, that's what!

As to his current situation – he felt that sense of well-being visit him again. Well, there was still Sloane and Irina, but otherwise … otherwise there was just a clean field of play between himself and the brilliant Dr. James Dodgson. For some reason that suddenly gave him an almost piratical sense of glee. His face split into a grin of devilish delight.

Let the games begin!

Hundreds of miles away, Sloane had landed in Italy and found the comfort of Emily's arms. He still dreamt his dark Rambaldi dreams, but at the times when he abruptly awoke, her very presence comforted him. His was a cruel dilemma - she was what stood between him and the dark, yet she was why he repeatedly had to embrace the dark, to save her.

He sometimes thought that she was the only thing that kept him sane.

He never dared imagine what would happen if she were to be gone for good.

Author's note: Jack's 'terrorised the first one who came calling' joke was adapted from something Bruce Willis once said about his daughters.