Chapter 24: Passatto Sotto - to duck under an attack by dropping onto the free hand to deliver a counter thrust.
Looking at Sloane, Sark wondered: what was it that made him suddenly want to punch his fist right through the bastard's face?
Was it that he, Sark, was suddenly at the end of some tether, or was it that he just hated Sloane? Always had, but had now only just realised it?
Before, Sark had tolerated him; well right then he couldn't stand him.
All thoughts of any crisis he might have just had were suppressed, because now he had to deal with Arvin Sloane. Automatically switching into combat mode he calculated: was it Sloane's rat-like appearance that alarmed him, his utter hypocrisy, his seedy pretence at care and concern when Sark knew he had none, or was it the fact that he was a genuine threat?
Sark did not deceive himself about just how dangerous Sloane was. Sloane had no moral compunctions and was capable of justifying any action. That gave him a great strength, because 'going too far' was something that held no meaning for him. He was quite ready to transgress any boundary of decency, to sink beneath even the lowest depths of humanity.
Plus, he was another Rambaldi nutter.
That was why Sark was watching Sloane and increasingly wondering why he didn't just kill him, let the chips fall where they may and somehow extract Irina without him.
That, and the fact that right then Sloane was standing too damn close to James Dodgson.
And Mr. Sark never had liked anyone touching his things.
"Why Mr. Sloane, I didn't expect you to arrive so soon."
"Due to outside events Mr, Sark, I moved up my plans."
Both men smiled at each other, each aware that neither of them meant it.
Sark moved into the room like a knight moving across a chessboard, his diagonal entry drawing Sloane away from James. In turn she watched them with a dark bitterness. She seemed to have recovered some composure from their emotional shoot-out but it was clear she despised Sark as much as she despised Sloane. Sark forced down the spark of anger he felt at it and kept up his pretence of bland assurance.
"Would you care for some refreshments Mr. Sloane? I'm sure you must have endured quite a journey."
"Thank you Mr. Sark, something light would be appreciated. Though I think my companion might prefer something of a little more substance."
He nodded to the door behind Sark through which entered another man. Sark felt a slight jump. He hadn't even realised anyone else was there. He'd been too distracted by his hot, slithering anger at James.
Get your head in the game!He turned to watch the man: he was well-built, dark, and oozing a smirking, cock-sure self confidence. He moved across the room toward Sark. Sark didn't know who he was but he knew exactly what he was. People such as he and the stranger were like mythic vampires, on first contact they could smell each other out as the same kind, ruthless and deadly.
Well, thought Sark, the opposition's knight is in play.
The man held out his hand and spoke in a rougher British accent than Sark's.
"Hello mate, my name's Simon Walker."
Even given the name Sark had no clue who he was , which meant he was some freelancer. The two men shook hands.
"Sark," responded Sark, introducing himself.
"Yeah, I've heard of you. You've got a reputation."
The two men held each other's gazes. Walker insolently projected into Sark's: you're younger than I thought. Sark's smile didn't reach his own eyes as he projected back: you're going to pay for that.
Sloane interrupted the contest, his habitual smile drifting over his unshaven face. "Shall we adjourn? I'm sure an afternoon tea would be in order, and you can let me know how things are going, Mr. Sark." He offered his arm to James as she got to her feet, her left leg still bandaged and stiff.
Something constricted violently in Sark's chest and he wanted to rip Sloane's arm off.
"Can I offer you some assistance my dear?" oozed Sloane.
There was a pause as Sark barely held himself back from tearing into Sloane. He saw James slide a jaundiced look between he and Sloane, as if tying to decide which one she detested more. Sark was astonished. Surely she's not going to line up with Sloane?
James spoke, addressing Sloane. "Back off pixie."
Sark felt a wave of sick relief. He caught the shock on Walker's face at James' riposte. Catching Sark looking at him, Walker enjoyed Sark's switch to a lethal cold when he taunted whisperingly, nodding at James, "Hot chick."
Sark quickly established that Simon Walker did not speak Russian. When ordering their meal he had called in FPG and, speaking Russian in pleasant tones, had referred to Walker in the vilest terms imaginable with the man standing right next to him. Walker didn't flinch, he didn't know when he was being insulted.
Sark knew Sloane wasn't fully fluent in the language, so speaking rapidly and using slang he told FPG to attend and to come inconspicuously armed. He also told him to put the word out, any shooting within and a crew were to instantly assault and were to shoot to kill on the visitors.
Sark sat down to tea with Sloane, trying to disguise his tension.
An edgy but very British 'afternoon tea', complete with Earl Grey, seed cake and cucumber sandwiches, took place around a low coffee table. It was attended by Sark, Simon Walker, Sloane, the man-mountain impassivity of FPG, and James. In other words, by a frighteningly young assassin of world renown, a deadly freelancer, a megalomaniac bent on world domination, a Russian Mafia hard-man and a 'mad professor'.
For her part, James - mutinous, angry - took in the strangeness of their little group and wondered if there was a dormouse asleep in the teapot.
She had never wanted to be anywhere less in her life. 'Trapped between a rock and a hard place' didn't even begin to cover it. She could sense that Sark and Sloane were headed for a showdown and that she was going to have to make a choice as to just whose side she was on – that of a crazed maniac or a disgusting career-criminal she personally hated. She listened keenly as Sloane and Sark angled for an edge on each other.
"Do you really think we need your companion in attendance?" Sloane asked of Sark, indicating FPG.
"Do you think we need yours?" Sark countered, indicating Simon Walker.
Sloane fought down the urge to blink at Sark's unyielding response. What was going on? Sark wasn't someone who challenged his superiors, Sark wasn't a rebel, Sark took orders. Just what new factors had come into play here? He angled for another pass.
"I think Mr. Walker has come a long way and deserves our hospitality, Mr. Sark."
"He has my hospitality, Mr. Sloane, " - because the fucker's not dead yet – "but in my own home I will invite whomsoever I choose as a dining companion. My choice of companion stays."
"I didn't realise this was your home Mr. Sark. I thought that it was Irina's or that somehow – forgive me – that I were bank-rolling you." He gave a chuckle of fond indulgence, like a kindly uncle implying he could absolve Sark for his current mis-judgement if he would just do the sensible thing and back down. "But excuse me, perhaps I'm mistaken." Sloane smilingly leant back in his seat, confident that his implicit threat would corral Sark and remind him of his place. It didn't.
Sark, frustrated, angry at James, contemptuous of Sloane, in some way furious at himself, flung down his statement of independence instead. "You are mistaken."
The temperature in the room dropped two degrees.
Sloane blinked. James stiffened: this is it! Sark carried on smoothly.
"You were certainly kind enough to fund me earlier and for that I am thankful, but this is my domain. I do have financial resources of my own Mr. Sloane, and my organisation has certainly proved itself lucrative, even in the short time of its existence. I no longer require your assistance, although of course you do have my gratitude."
Simon Walker sensed the atmosphere and shifted inconspicuously, giving himself easier access to his gun.
James spotted his action and got in the game. She picked her team, she picked Sark. A career-criminal or a maniac? It was an unfair choice, a crazily limited one, but the outcome was never in doubt: it was always going to have to be Sark whether she liked it or not. She reached across and condescendingly patted Walker on his trigger arm as he shifted uneasily. "Easy tiger, just you sit still now and let the grown-ups do the talking." An embarrassed Walker shifted his gaze to Sloane, looking for some kind of indication as to what to do. It was then that James turned to FPG and spoke in the most horrendously accented Russian Sark had ever heard.
"When it starts, shoot the little guy, he's the danger."
Sloane's face was a picture of surprise, he wasn't sure what she'd said, her accent was too bad, but he was stunned that she could speak any Russian at all. It was a matter of fact, Dodgson spoke only English. What? – she had taught herself to speak Russian, and in a few days?
Sark's face evidenced a gleam of delight, both at James' revealed talent and at what she had said. Whether she liked it or not, whether she hated him or not, she was still on his team!
She could struggle all she liked and defy him all she wanted, but it was not over between them yet!
"Yeah I know," James explained to all, "I didn't speak Russian, probably still don't given the accent - but what can I say, I'm a quick study, a good listener and I've had the incentive to learn."
"You impress me my dear," slid Sloane.
"Hardly difficult."
"My dear, you should learn that a lady graciously accepts a compliment."
James hit back, bland and bored. "Shut up."
A smirking, smiling Sark indicated the teapot to a discomfited Walker, "More tea?"
Sloane hoped his unctuous smile concealed his astonishment. The situation seemed to be slipping away from him. He'd lost his grip on Sark. And Sark and Dodgson … they seemed to have done the unimaginable given their wildly differing natures and the situation which had flung them together, they were teaming up against him. He knew himself so little that he did not understand that when he smiled he telegraphed deceit in any case.
James read the telegram.
Sloane's slow unctuous voice peeled out words. "Doctor Dodgson, I am surprised at just how willing you are to extend benevolence to Mr. Sark." He made his play, attempting to split their partnership, "After all, he did shoot you."
Sark felt the air hiss in his lungs – you're dead you fucker!
James' expression flickered in anger, Sloane had hit a target, he had reminded her of all the rage she felt toward Sark. Livid, she smiled with a frosty grace toward Simon Walker, "I'll pour," and picked up the pot and flung the scalding contents into the freelancer's lap.
The group convulsed in a single surge of activity which halted with Sark and Walker pointing holding guns to each other's heads and FPG holding Arvin Sloane at gunpoint.
Stand off.
James appraised the situation, face a mask of furious contempt for everyone concerned.
"Well, at least we've cleared the polite shit out the way," she hissed, glaring at Sloane. "Let me clarify things. I ordinarily couldn't give a rat's-ass what you people do to each other, but to maximise my own chances of living, let me lay it straight. If your guy shoots Sark, our guy," she indicated an unblinking FPG with a jerk of her head, "shoots you. Have you got that?"
"It is abundantly clear, Dr. Dodgson."
"Then from now on in Rat-Guy, don't fuck with me." James continued to hold Sloane's gaze even as she issued an order to Walker. "You - Mr. 'I'm Aries What's Your Star Sign?' - put your gun down."
Sloane, swallowing, gave an almost imperceptible nod to Walker.
James reached out for Walker's weapon, simultaneously speaking to FPG in her atrocious Russian. "If the runt moves, shoot."
FPG steadied his aim on Sloane, the intent of his movement was clear to all.
James tugged the weapon out of Walker's unresisting hand and gave it to FPG who now had a double lock-down on Sloane – a gun in each fist.
Tense, Sark watched her from out of the corner of his eye. Even now could they come out of this with their differences put aside, allied as they were against Arvin Sloane? If he got a second chance, could he make it work out right?
Sark shelved his considerations and dealt with the present. He addressed Walker with a silky urbanity, still holding his gun on him. "Put your hands in the air or I will shoot you." Walker raised his hands, hissing with pain as his movement caused his jeans to catch against his scalded crotch. "I am going to give you two choices Mr. Walker, either stay here and attempt to 'protect' Mr. Sloane in your current damaged state, or leave in the company of my men whereupon you can douse some cold water on those scalded bollocks of yours." Sark couldn't quite keep the laugh out of his voice. "Arvin Sloane or your balls. I'm sure that any future Mrs. Walker would be grateful if you made the wise choice."
Walker's expression was one of bottled rage; angry but compliant. Sark dog-whistled and two of his men came in, guns at the ready, Sark issued the orders and they carted Walker out – any trouble and they would shoot him.
The remainder of the tea party reconvened. Sark had the excited, jumpy thrill that went through him when he could feel it going his way. James was grindingly, gloweringly angry, still furious at having to pick between the devil and the deep blue. Sloane recommenced his efforts to outflank Sark. Whatever else Sloane was, he was not someone who just gave up.
"Mr. Sark, you are making a mistake in setting yourself up in opposition against me - "
"I am not setting myself up in opposition against you, I am setting myself up in business. I see no reason for us not to co-operate when our mutual interests would be served."
Sloane thought he detected a micron of weakness in Sark's angling away from flat-out opposition, he threw every ounce of oozing persuasion he had into exploiting it. "Mr. Sark, if we pursue the works of Rambaldi together, I can offer you power and control beyond your imagining."
James broke in with sneering disbelief. "Power and control beyond his imagining? He's got too much as it is. Now what the fuck do you want?"
Diverted, Sloane instead felt for a weakness in James. He already knew that Sark's weakness was the pursuit of power, what was hers, intellectual vanity?
"I require you to help me with the building of certain Rambaldi devices Doctor." His expression shifted to one of melting concern as his gaze held hers, his voice sibilant. James was irresistibly reminded of the googly eyed snake in Jungle Book. "With the greatest of respect to Mr. Sark, right now you are far more important that he is. Mr. Sark is … a variation on a gifted business man; you Doctor, are a genius with - I suspect - a unique understanding of the works of Rambaldi."
James' response was gunslinger fast and sharp-shooter accurate. "Quit the 'divide and conquer' tactics, ass-hat. Get to the point."
Sloane blinked, if Dodgson had a weakness it wasn't intellectual vanity. He kept pushing, feeling for an angle of attack. "I need you to complete the current device you are working on Doctor, and then … I will be gone forever from your own and Mr. Sark's lives."
Sark thought two words: Lying and Bastard.
James just laughed. "What, you seriously think I'm gonna give you the answer to the current box of tricks I'm working on?"
Sloane probed, trying to determine how far on she was with the project. "What would that box of tricks be Doctor?"
"Oh I think you already know which is why I don't mind telling you, you're problem is you just don't know how to build it. It's the equivalent of a re-usable neutron bomb in a suitcase."
Fuck! Sark just about kept his face straight. They were working on a what? He got an iron grip on himself. That fucking maniac Rambaldi, no wonder the fifteenth century Vatican had him whacked!
"A device not far on from what military science can currently devise Doctor," responded Sloane, "so why be shocked at it? I will merely sell the theory and the hardware on to the highest bidder, in this case, I suspect, to the U.S. Government."
James looked at Sloane with sneering dismissal. Sloane saw that there was no co-operation forthcoming there. As he realised he was getting nowhere with Dodgson, he switched his invidious, undermining attack back to Sark. "Do you have any other opinion on the matter Mr. Sark? After all, there is a great deal of money to be made."
Yeah, my opinion is 'fuck off and die' you arsehole!
Sark felt almost soiled. Money? Sloane thought that on an issue like this he could be swayed by mere money? He coldly looked at Sloane. Sitting there Sark was struck by an almost poetic thought: he considered that although Sloane and Rambaldi had lived centuries apart they were still fitting accomplices. Both had blackened souls.
Sark made up his mind, he had heard enough – a re-usable neutron bomb in a suitcase? He was going to order Sloane's execution right there, right then; the man wasn't leaving the room alive. Irina could be extracted somehow later. Freed from Sloane and Rambaldi he would sort the situation out with James, he would leverage it so that she saw it his way. And okay, so this would be one more death she would have to witness close up, but it couldn't be helped. He turned to say the words, to issue the death sentence for FPG to enact, when he felt a beating pulse against his wrist. It was his watch.
Irina.
Oh sodding hell! That women knows just when to pick her moment!
He decoded her signal, it reminded him of what had always been his core objective: I have an out, but I need Sloane's help to do it.
Sark and James were in hissed conference, away in a far corner while FPG held Sloane at unyielding gunpoint.
"You cannot be fucking serious! You are giving him a Doomsday machine!"
"Which elements of certain governments are probably very close to creating anyway. Sloane was certainly right about that."
"This is just about money?"
"No!" Sark fought down his anxiety and distaste, he had to get her to believe him. "It has nothing to do with money – look around you, I don't need money." He looked about himself and realised he was telling the truth, he already had power and wealth enough, for the first time in his life he realised that he didn't need more. "It's to do with … I have to help someone. I have to rescue them and right now the best way I can do it is to go along with Sloane."
He had to get Irina out of that glass box. As the only person on the planet she could communicate with she'd placed her faith in him totally. He couldn't just leave her there, it would be like sitting idly back to watch the struggles of a cat in a sack, flung into a canal to drown.
He couldn't do that, after all, he knew she'd never do it to him.
Beneath her sneering fury he saw James register some flicker of weakness, some sympathy with his predicament. With a queasy recognition he recalled exactly why it was that she knew just what it felt like to have a hostage held against you. He shoved the knowledge away from him and pursued his point.
"I know Sloane. He will never use that weapon. He knows it will bring the wrath of every government agency in the world down on his back. He won't use it, he will simply sell it. When he does, if it's not to a stable government then I will steal it back or destroy it and then I will kill him anyway. But right now I need him and I need to show co-operation in this."
James' gaze was locked with his, glaring, furious, but something in her shifted. Her mouth was a compressed line of disgust and anger, but she nodded.
Before talking to James, Sark had decoded the rest of Irina's message. An emergency had blown up in L.A., the CIA had been forced to allow her access to its databases in the belief that she could rectify the situation for them. During her on-line stint she had secretly uncovered exactly what it was that she had turned herself in for: the location of the CIA's Rambaldi devices. She could now leave, but to do so she needed to tip the CIA's hand, she needed to push them into such a panic about Sloane that they would be willing to let her out, running her on a long leash in the hope that she could dig up Sloane for them. When she was out and running, Sark could extract her.
She needed Sark to engineer Sloane into raising his threat profile.
Well, if Sloane's possession of a re-usable neutron bomb in a suitcase didn't achieve that, Sark didn't know what the hell would.
James left to complete her work on the Rambaldi neutron bomb. Sark stayed with Sloane to hammer out negotiations. He was relieved at James' absence because there was a chance that Sloane might ask for something she could not go along with. Sark was painfully aware that he was now in a weak position. He needed Sloane – never a good place to be - and Sloane was newly aware that Sark was not his puppet.
Great timing on your rebel streak Sarkey! he glowered to himself.
"So, why do you need this device so suddenly?" he asked.
"Do I need to tell you?"
"No, but humour me. After all, I can still withhold it from you."
Sloane smiled, "I might equally ask why you are co-operating."
Sark knew that one had been coming and was ready for it.
"Because as you said, I enjoy power and control, and this endeavour has the feel of both." He prayed that Sloane would buy it. Sloane bought it – after all, Sark had been careful to give Sloane reference to what Sloane had just offered him: power and control. Sark knew Sloane wouldn't have offered those factors if Sloane hadn't already decided they were Sark's weaknesses. "So, to repeat myself Mr. Sloane, which I never enjoy doing, why do you particularly want it now?"
"I need it in a negotiation for a section of the Rambaldi manuscript - "
Oh for fuck's sake!
" - which of course, may not be a factor of prime concern to yourself. So in addition, I will negotiate for a financial exchange from my intended customer: 40 million dollars, of which half will immediately be yours."
Sark was grateful for the introduction of money into the equation, it gave him a concrete benefit behind which to hide his real reason for co-operation: Irina.
Sloane shifted slightly in his seat, poising himself for his next sentence. Sark picked up the tell. Whatever was coming next, Sloane saw it as a potential deal-breaker. Sark steeled himself to agree to it no matter what it was.
"For any exchange at all of course, my customer will require proof of the effectiveness of the weapon."
Sark kept his face utterly frozen.
"My customer has an ex-wife whom he considers to have betrayed him. He wants her … removed. A display of the weapon's capabilities which achieved that would, I believe, gain his gratitude as well as his money. And I need his gratitude."
Sark got the urge to make a sneering reference to the alternative of simply withholding alimony payments. However, whilst he, Sark, may have wanted to question what was being suggested, he knew that Mr. Sark, his public persona, would not. In order to maximise Irina's chances of escape, Sloane had to be convinced he was dealing with Mr. Sark, and with Mr. Sark's motives. Sark couldn't leave Irina locked up in that glass box forever.
Sloane squirmed again.
Here comes another deal breaker.
"I feel sure that you and I are both aware that Dr. Dodgson isn't fully on board with this. So in order to minimise the possibility of sabotage on her part I would like you to be the one to 'press the button' so to speak. It will give you the maximum incentive to ensure her complete co-operation."
Sark felt his stomach roll, but responded with the question which he knew Mr. Sark would be expected to ask.
"When and where is the planned hit?"
The two men went on to discuss exact details of the strike. Sark could scarcely credit his ability to keep functioning. A hit on the Mexico City Vatican Embassy, with a church attached? Hundreds of people?
He and Sloane separated, with Sloane under discreet guard. They re-convened a few hours later to meet with James during her presentation of her findings. When all three of them re-assembled, Sloane was both pleased and impressed by James' work. He was also thrilled. Dodgson was brilliant. Dodgson really understood Rambaldi. Dodgson could build the all important Telling which would pave the way for Rambaldi's return.
"Excellent my dear," he said. "I'm sure all is in order. In any case we shall see when we go for a trial run with the weapon."
James jerked a look at Sark.
"We're testing in the Siberian Wastes," he lied smoothly.
Looking at James, Sark did not see Sloane's eyes glint at his words. Hearing Sark, Sloane knew he had just won a prize. Sark had lied to Dodgson, and he'd lied to cover the enormity of what they were about. Sloane knew then that Sark had a further weakness – whether he knew it or not, whether he even liked it or not, Sark cared about what Dodgson thought of him.
And Dodgson, what did she think?
"I'm sure you'll be interested to hear, Dr Dodgson," Sloane interjected, "that Mr. Sark will be the one to detonate the device." He watched her intently. "I'm sure, however, that the calculations for its construction are all in order and that all will go smoothly."
Sark's gaze was riveted on Sloane, he didn't see James' reaction: James blinked too many times.
"Well I will need to run some last minute checks you understand," she said, a slight hitch in her voice. "I always like to triple check calculations."
Sloane smiled approvingly, "Of course you do my dear."
Sloane knew then that she had sabotaged the figures she had been about to hand him, intending to destroy the weapon on first use. He knew it because now he knew that she was going to fix them. Sloane congratulated himself. He not only had Sark's weakness, but now he had Dodgson's too.
Dodgson's weakness, whether she acknowledged it or not, whether she even knew it or not, was Sark.
Sark and James faced each other after Sloane's departure. Sark's face was a poised mask: controlled, composed, decided. He intended for them to turn a corner based on their alliance against Sloane, he was going to make it happen. "James, I - "
She cut him off, speaking rapidly, as though if she could just get the words out fast enough he would have to comply.
"I coughed up the data for that bomb and in return I want something: I want out, I want my freedom back. I'm gonna co-operate on this and you are gonna let me go. After that, I never want to see your face again."
It was a hiss that evinced utter conviction.
Sark blinked repeatedly. It might almost have been a fluttering of eyelashes, but it wasn't. Silence resonated between them. Then, just for a puzzled second, James caught her breath at something she thought she saw in his face – something flickering there before it was swiftly covered up.
Just for a second there had seemed to be a horrible vertiginous depth to his gaze, and at the bottom of it something lying broken and hurt from having taken an unexpected fall too-far.
He's hurt? I hurt him? That can't be, he …
"Oh puhleeze," she sneered at him, shoring herself up against her own thoughts, "cut the soulful 'I'm hurt' routine. You haven't got 'hurt' in you, you bastard!"
Five minutes later, Sark slid to a crouch on his bathroom floor, back to the closed door, 8000 suit-jacket rucked up by the friction between he and the door panels. The bathroom: he owned the entire suite and this small, locked cell was the only place in it he could even try to be himself. His knees were drawn up, elbows on them, fists pounding at his temples - trying to deal with a panicked, hysterical wrath he did not know how to express.
It can't be true! It can't be! She can't not want me!
He began to rock back and forth into the door, stronger and more wildly each time, eventually slamming against it.
It can't be happening! Not to me!
The heels of his handmade shoes started kicking against the floor.
He yanked frenziedly at his golden hair.
His whole body twisted and jerked, face contorted.
IT CAN'T BE HAPPENING!
Something contorted and flexed within him and Mr. Sark – the urbane, controlled, icily self-determined Mr. Sark - lost it.
He repeatedly threw his head back, slamming it into the door, silently screaming, his fists pulling at his hair.
His screaming was silent because it had to be. Not just through fear that anyone might hear but because somewhere along the way Mr. Sark had forgotten how to express a vulnerability. He'd forgotten how to make those kinds of screams.
Vulnerability was a danger and Mr. Sark had eliminated it a long time ago.
All he could do now was keep his hurts inside - like a toxin he couldn't purge - building up the level over the years until one day, presumably, the poison would kill him.
