Chapter 31: Riposte - a counter-attack immediately following a parry, usually in one action.

Sark had said goodbye to the White Devil. He felt compelled to drop the name since Irina's revelation of Page 48, it had given him the creeps to be called by it. He had told himself that it would be flipping the finger to fate to keep it, a big fat Bring It On to whatever was out there, a defiant Fuck You to Rambaldi; but the thing was too unsettling.

The name felt like bad luck now, and some fights weren't worth the winning.

Sark had a plan, he had negotiated transport on a Russian Military flight which would take him and a small crew over the top of the world and quietly drop them in Anchorage, where they could pick up a private jet to get to L.A.. He would arrive completely unannounced with the lowest profile possible: solo. His crew would simply return to Moscow. He had used the simplest negotiating tool in the world to persuade the Russian flight-crew to take them to Anchorage: money, cash, lots of it. The Captain had weighed up the offer; the request was obviously an illegal procedure, but his flight crew hadn't been paid in three months and there was a lot of money on the table, American dollars too. Besides, the Russian Military were in such chaos that no-one would ever know.

Even so, he had still been doubtful, especially as the young, blond man with the intense, glittering blue eyes had insisted on taking his own armed crew on-board.

"Why do you need them on-board?"

"So you won't double-cross me for the money and kill me."

"How do I know you won't kill or double-cross me in turn?"

"Because you have my word on it."

The pilot had weighed him up. His word eh? He appraised the young stranger's hard gaze. He was a man who relied on his judgement of character – his judgement was that this young man's word was good.

"And you can take that bleedin' look of yer face. Which one of us is the prisoner here?"

In the kitchen of a secluded L.A. villa, Walker stalked about, rigid with annoyance, whilst James grinned evilly at him. He flicked a look at her, Jesus, where had he seen a smirk like that before? – yep, on the face of that fucker Sark! What had she done, taken lessons off him? He thought of the bind he was in, on the one hand in hock to Arvin Sloane and on the other facing a pissed off Sark … Give her back or torturing you to death will become my hobby.

Hell, I've done a lot of naughty shit in my life, but I don't deserve this crap!

To sprinkle shit-flavoured icing on the turd cake he was stuck in L.A. – never his favourite city: too fucking sunny, and all those gits on roller skates, what? – they can't fackin' walk? – and was surrounded by a crew who weren't his but were Arvin Sloane's.

Who was the prisoner here? He hadn't admitted it to Dodgson, he hadn't fully admitted it to himself, but he was beginning to feel it was him. He knew he didn't have control of the crew. It had become a battle of wills between he and Sloane's L.A. operative, a pretty caramel skinned lovely with the dead eyes of a killer: 'Allison Doren'. If he issued an order, the crew cleared it with Doren first and she just smirked at him because of it. It was a battle of wills, an authority turf war, and he was losing it. And when he finally did lose he knew that an avalanche would come down on his ass and that he or Dodgson or both of them would wind up dead as Doren stamped her authority on the situation by making an example of them.

He didn't like the way Doren kept looking at Dodgson, smirkingly measuring her up, itching to take her on. It was almost as though she resented her for something personal.

He knew he should be concentrating on his own safety, but about Dodgson, well he felt fucking responsible.

He knew the only real thing protecting her was not himself but the fact that Sloane had wanted her alive to get the goods for him on whatever she had been working on. Walker knew that she had now finished – she'd drawn up the schematics on a piece of scrap-metal crap called The Telling - and he wasn't sure how much time either of them had left. Even if they both lived, Dodgson would be swept off into Sloane's and Doren's clutches, and no-one would ever know what became of her until in about fifteen years, maybe, a skeleton got washed out of a riverbank somewhere.

He needed the cavalry to get him out of this one and he didn't have the cavalry's number.

He knew that Doren was absent right now. He flicked a look at the kitchen doorway, he might as well do the rounds in an effort to find out what the hell was going on.

"You!" he pointed a finger stiffly at James, "just sit there and quit yer bleedin' grinnin'!"

James just shrugged indolently. "Consider grinning quit."

Walker stalked out, muttering something that sounded like friggin' Doren.

Watching him go, James was fully aware of just how tenuous her position was. She was damned sure Walker would never kill her, but she was equally sure that it was no longer his choice; Sloane's lieutenant, the woman known as Allison Doren, was in charge and would kill her as soon as she could.

What am I saying? - the 'woman' known as Allison Doren? More like the 'bitch-troll minx' known as Allison Doren!

James acridly recalled one of their earlier 'conversations', with Doren's hooded gaze sneering down at her as the woman leant against the kitchen counter, wearing skin-tight leather and waving a cigarette around like it was a magic wand.

James had known Doren was eventually going to kill her and hadn't demeaned herself by begging.

"He's quite something, isn't he?" Doren had drawled after a while of staring.

James had ignored her.

"I meant Sark," Doren had prompted, knowing that Sloane had stolen James from Sark.

James had shrugged, even though she'd been hit by a genuine surprise. Sark knew Doren?

"Surprised I know him?" queried Doren, "I know him well – very well." At that last her voice took on a licentious tone, there was no doubt what she was implying. "Yeah, we're partners," Doren had let the inference dangle in the air. "That bond never really goes away does it?"

"No, and neither does the smell. Wondered why he always bathed in Clorox."

Jeesus, Sark had … and with that fucking skank? James had felt a flare of wrath.

"Sloane's told me to keep an eye on you." Doren managed to make it sound like a threat.

"What a bastard eh? - giving you difficult orders like that. What does he think you are, intelligent?"

"I could kill you quite easily."

"Sure, if Sloane didn't need me. Oops damn! That cunning plan foiled again hey Allison?"

"You won't have Sloane's protection forever you know."

"Yeah, but hey, may as well die as I lived, right? – obnoxious."

Allison had taken an enraged step towards her.

"Uh, uh now!" James had wagged a finger, "don't forget … Mr Sloane needs me." Allison had paused uncertainly in mid-stride, James had taken full advantage. "Don't fuck with me Doren, you're gonna kill me anyway. You're one of those sad bitches who needs to be in charge precisely because you know you're not. You'll kill me just to prove to yourself that you are. You're just a secretly scared schoolyard bully, I've met enough of them in my life to know one when I see one."

Allison had glared with the look of an enraged dog straining at the end of a length of chain. The length of chain was Sloane's order not to kill Dodgson. James knew that as soon as her usefulness to Sloane was ended, that Doren would kill her to shore up her own sense of authority.

Well, James thought Doren might get her chance sooner than she knew. James knew she'd helped build a thing called The Telling, and from Sloane's bliss at having the schematics she sensed that her usefulness might well now be over. He'd gotten what he wanted.

She almost wished she had that sick bastard Sark back.

Sark.

She had not really allowed herself to think about him since she had been captured by Sloane. There had seemed little point. She had warned him about Echelon, but really, did it matter? He wasn't going to come and get her, after all, she'd given him no reason to. Besides, even if he did … well, was Sark's frying pan any better than Sloane's fire?

Irina cruised L.A.. She was still surprised at what she was doing – about to engage in a cash for Rambaldi artefacts exchange with one of the most dangerous operatives she had ever met: Arvin Sloane. And doing so in the very city which held the greatest discomfort for her – Los Angeles, the place where she'd been held for months on end in a glassed-in box in a basement.

Anyone else would have termed the physical circumstances of her incarceration cruel and unusual, the CIA had called it 'custody'.

She had set up the mechanisms for the exchange yesterday at a beachside café with Sloane; she felt confident that all would go well, anyway at least confident that if Sloane tried to screw her over then she could more than screw him back.

She recalled yesterday, sitting across the table from her Sloane had looked like he'd died and been brought back, several times. Irina reflected that there was quite a difference between re-animation and resurrection, with resurrection a person was bought back to life, with re-animation a body was simply juiced up to keep moving – it's spirit absent, or else evicted by something else. Arvin Sloane had looked like he'd been re-animated.

"So you are willing to sell them?"

"More than willing, and for a price I feel is quite reasonable." They had been discussing the sale of Sloane's Rambaldi collection. "I have spent my life in pursuit of the great mystery of Rambaldi, and now … well I feel I may term it instead that I 'wasted' my life. I do not wish to look upon his artefacts again, I would simply be reminded of the evidence of my failure to live life."

Irina wouldn't have bought that little speech for a second prior to Emily's murder, but sitting there she had looked across at Sloane and thought his statement was true. Well, true for now. Better make the deal then, she had decided, while he was still willing to offer one, before he changed his mind and decided that a fitting memoriam to Emily was not to abandon his Rambaldi pursuit but to fulfil it.

"And your price?"

"Three hundred million. I think you'll agree, hardly exorbitant."

"Hardly exorbitant? It's cheap. Why so little?"

"I want rid of them. I want them gone so I see no reason to set a price that would encourage haggling or delay. In the parlance of the market place Irina, I'm offering you first refusal."

"I can have the money available for transfer by this time tomorrow. Can you have the artefacts ready?"

"They are ready now."

She had felt an unsettling frisson at his words … they are ready now. To her, the Rambaldi pursuit had been an almost abstract endeavour really, despite all the killings and deception. But … all those artefacts were real. Rambaldi was real. Irina had felt a chill, as though she had entered a refrigerated chamber, entered a place were the atmospheric pressure was quite different.

"Arvin, what assurances do I have that you won't double cross me?"

"Because you will kill me if I do."

Damn right asshole!

Alone in her rented car Irina killed time before the meet by slowly rolling through one of the more mundane suburbs of the city, one that would go totally unmarked on any Homes of the Stars' map: she had not picked it at random, she knew it was where Jack lived. All those years and she'd never really lost track of him, she'd always known where his home was, well where he dwelt. She doubted that Jack had a 'home' anywhere.

She twitched, angry at herself.

What the hell did she think she was doing, driving round the streets, circling Jack's house? She was like some teenage girl in her dad's car, cruising past the house of a boy she had a crush on and hoping to casually see him! What was she aiming to do? Park up, knock on the door and ask him out for coffee? He'd held her in captivity, he'd been ready to have her executed, she'd only gotten away in Stuttgart by the skin of her teeth. And yet …

She pounded her hands against the steering wheel as she drove.

Goddamn Jack, sometimes I wish I'd never met him!

Besides, it wasn't that she didn't have enough else on her mind right now, she couldn't afford to go thinking about Jack!

The car slowly picked up speed and took her away.

From his lounge window Jack looked out and saw a car that had been cruising past slowly pick up speed and carry its driver away. Something about it held his attention, the female driver had been somehow memorable.

It couldn't be, could it?

He shook his head, of course it couldn't be, not even Irina was that crazy. He'd held her captive, he'd set her up for execution – his mind veered away from that – and as for Stuttgart, well … Jack's mind veered away from that too, whatever he had done in Stuttgart it was over now, he wasn't going to question his motives on it.

So why would she come to him? Besides, what could he have done if he ever did meet her, flag her down and ask her in for coffee?

He picked up his briefcase and straightened his tie and smoothed his hair, he had an op today, taking the di Regno heart to a drop-off, no doubt to be picked up later by a third party and transported to the CIA's secret holding area for its own Rambaldi collection. A task Kendall had suddenly given him, hardly difficult, but even so it was still quite enough on his mind – there was always that sneaky bastard Sloane out there - he didn't need to go spiralling off thinking about Irina. He did think about her though, there wasn't a week - no, make that a day – that went by when he didn't. All that time, all that bitterness, and he still knew in his heart of hearts that no matter what, he could never wish he'd never met her.

He didn't know what he would do about her. After well over 20 years, he supposed there wasn't much he could do. Time was running out, maybe it had already ran out?

He left the house, jaw set.

Rambaldi, he thought, what a load of shit. What a load of damage it had caused.

Jack didn't know where the CIA's secret Rambaldi stash was, yet. But he'd find out. And when he did then he thought he might just bomb the crap out of it.

In the Rotunda, Vaughn watched Sydney. He almost felt like a stalker. He recalled the recent private conversation he'd had with Kendall, a 'request' that he spy on the Bristows.

Vaughn had turned him down flat on the spot.

If the CIA wanted to spy on his colleagues, then they'd have to find someone else to do it.

But the situation still filled him with a discomfort. The idea that the management thought that Sydney and Jack Bristow might even need to be under secret surveillance …

Jack Bristow's words filtered through his head … Vaughn's opinion is irrelevant you are a boy who is just not good enough for my daughter … He felt a spasm of resentment, he would have been a saint not to.

He stared over at Sydney, who neither noticed nor looked back, the story of their lives these days.

With a painful spasm his mind veered back to Sark.

Was Sydney allowing herself to be lead astray over Sark? Was Jack Bristow playing one of his convoluted double bluff games – claiming that Sark was a double-gamer - that could end up getting Sydney into trouble?

He considered it. If he did 'investigate' privately – not for Kendall, but for himself - and found anything, then if he had to tell Kendall he could skew the intel to leverage cover for Sydney … but for Jack Bristow?

Who the hell was Jack Bristow really?

The guy had worked for SD-6 knowing they were the enemy, Sydney had been tipped into doing the same by tragedy, but Jack Bristow had been different. Who the hell could trust a double-gamer like him?

Vaughn felt resentful, and then guilty for feeling resentful, but Jack Bristow and Sark were two men who were far too much alike for his tastes, two men whom he sensed dismissed him and who with their impersonal game-playing but very personal agendas essentially posed a danger to Sydney. They were like two Cornish ship-wreckers, coldly laying afire false beacons to lure a trusting boat into treacherous waters.

He looked over at Sydney again, pondering.

Jack Bristow wasn't the only one who could utilise a passive tracker …

Thirty thousand feet above, Sark gave a cold, narrow smirk and leapt out of a plane. A HALO jump, High Altitude, Low Opening, oxygen supply necessary, special suit on. As the freezing air whistled past him he had time for one flaring thought at something James had once said to him: The James Bond of Bad Guys?

If she ever found out about this, she'd never let him live it down.

At the burnt out Dacha, Sark's action-orientated mind had skidded about under him like a car on ice, and then protected itself by getting traction in reverting to what he was good at: planning. They had to be somewhere. He'd contact everyone he knew. He'd find them. He was going to offer a very big reward. And when he found them? When he found them he was going to make Arvin Sloane wish he'd never fucking met Mr. Sark!

As he and his crew hurtled back to Moscow, Sark's mind had digressed down angry alleyways. I'm going to beat the crap out of that git Graham Caplan, just for the hell of it! Caplan? More like Graham CRAPlan! He had snarlingly remembered James relating how she'd asked for divorce but Craplan had refused – you'd think someone was holding a gun to his head, making him stay married – well he'd hold a gun to his head alright, he'd –

And then several large pieces of a puzzle had aligned to reveal a proper picture in his head.

you'd think someone was holding a gun to his head, making him stay married … You know I once got interviewed by the NSA? … they were just tellin' me that with my line of work and such that I might be approached by the Russians or enemies of the state or somethin'…

It had burst upon him, Graham Caplan was a Russian spy! Sark's mind had raced over everything he knew about Russian strategy where sleepers were attached to specific partners and came up with one exultant thought: they'd have chipped James without her knowing – all he had to do was find out the tracking signal and then he could find her!

He had done just that.

Falling through the air, totally out of control, Sark had never felt more in control. He felt calm, sure, determined. He knew what he was doing and he knew where he was going. He was going to track James Dodgson down and … well, he'd figure the rest out when he got there.

And okay, so it was L.A., home of the CIA and … home of Sydney Bristow …

Dammit! Right now he did not want to be thinking about Sydney! In fact, sod Sydney and Irina! His was his own destiny! He was going to make it turn out his way!

Knowing there was no-one there to witness it, Sark – like a schoolboy who knows no-one is watching - abruptly turned tumbles as he fell through the air, alive to the sheer joy of freefall. Knowing there was no-one there to witness it, Sark felt safe to deliver a full-throated whoop! of wild exhilaration.