JAKARTA, INDONESIA
Sydney is reading a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, completely intent on ignoring the man next to her in the jet.
Sark watches her, his gaze unwavering. He reflects on how it's the perfect title for Sydney's current situation-she's shelved her pride but hasn't lost her prejudice for him, even though they are working toward a common cause. Still isn't over the 'assassin' bit.
He sighs. Now would be a good time for him to explain-about Allison. He takes a deep breath and ventures to speak. "There are a few things that I'd like you to know about."
Sydney looks up from her book and eyes him warily.
"It was not my suggestion to perform the genetic procedure on A.G. Doren; in fact, I argued against it. Sloane was the one who made the decision."
Her expression holds contempt. "Obviously you didn't argue hard enough."
"You don't think so?" he asks, his voice hard. "Believe me, Sydney, I tried everything to stop Allison's- to stop Doren's operation. But Sloane was set on it." He stops, aware he might have gone too far.
But Sydney is looking almost triumphant. "You called her Allison."
He bites his inner cheek. "You allow your fellow operatives to call you Sydney," he says, rather defensively.
Now she seems thoughtful. At last she says, "' Sark' can't be your real name."
She is met with a cool smirk. "Perhaps it is."
"Do you even have a first name?"
"I prefer to keep my . . . origins . . . separate from my professional life, Miss Bristow."
Her next words come out almost in a whisper. "How did you get involved in this life, anyway? This . . . this-world of . . . just . . ." She trails off. She's now looking directly into his clear blue eyes. "There is so much I don't know about you."
He feels a strange sort of leap in his heart, and suddenly he is reminded of seeing Irina in one of her more . . . seductive moods . . . maybe . . . maybe there's something more than just plain curiosity in those brown eyes . . . maybe that's just what it is . . . they're almost too close to each other . . .
Of course. She's only trying to get some extra information out of him. He averts his gaze. "And I think we'll keep it that way," he says quietly.
Sark chances a glance back at her in a few minutes. She looks rather downcast.
Briskly, he changes the subject before she manages to change his mind. "We're landing in ten minutes. We should reach the alleged 'hide-out' in an hour."
Sydney nods in acknowledgement and immediately returns to her book.
Sark stands and strides over to the window, looking below them at the endless sea of clouds.
* * *
MADRID
24 Hours Earlier
"I've planted the evidence, it should be discovered within the next two days."
Irina gives him a short, approving nod. Sark hesitates before changing the subject to the one he is most concerned about.
"Have you taken any action-regarding Doren?"
Irina sighs. "Since the escapes of you and Tippin, they've been reconfiguring their internal network. It's made it much more difficult to access. All we know is that she's alive and undergoing intense interrogations."
He'd been expecting more. Now he feels something cold slam into his chest. "We have nothing."
"Sark-" Irina starts, but falls silent. She begins again in a quieter tone. "As soon as we finish infiltrating the new network, I promise you . . . we will have something."
Sark stares down at the well-polished wood of her desk.
Abruptly Irina takes out a slim folder and places it in front of him. "An asset in Jakarta sent communications to us, regarding Sloane's whereabouts. It's believed he's taken refuge under a member of the Mahala Kej, a small organization of revolutionaries. I'm sending in you and Sydney, along with a separate team. You'll find the details of the mission here."
"When do we leave?"
"Two hours. Op tech has already been prepared."
Sark rises, picks up the folder, and exits the office.
* * *
He turns back around to face Sydney.
He chooses his words carefully. "I don't think it will be difficult for you to remember the-incident in Mexico City at the Vatican Embassy."
Sydney does not look up, but continues to stare down at the page.
"Your CIA picked up a transmission with several key words . . . terrorist attack . . . weapons of mass destruction . . . Rambaldi. Didn't you wonder where it was sent from, why someone would use those key words in an actual conversation?"
"I was too busy wondering what type of . . . [i] person [/i] would choose to incinerate sixty-two innocent people for the sake of killing one." There is cold fury on her face.
"I sent that transmission." He pauses. "My job compels me to perform some unpleasant tasks, but it's not as though my conscience has completely eroded."
"And here I was with the impression that you'd been born without one." Before he can reply, she goes on, "It's like I told you before. We have nothing in common. We are not friends. And we will never become friends."
"But we're allies, now, Miss Bristow." She doesn't reply.
"Which means that for now, we have to trust each other."
Sydney is reading a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, completely intent on ignoring the man next to her in the jet.
Sark watches her, his gaze unwavering. He reflects on how it's the perfect title for Sydney's current situation-she's shelved her pride but hasn't lost her prejudice for him, even though they are working toward a common cause. Still isn't over the 'assassin' bit.
He sighs. Now would be a good time for him to explain-about Allison. He takes a deep breath and ventures to speak. "There are a few things that I'd like you to know about."
Sydney looks up from her book and eyes him warily.
"It was not my suggestion to perform the genetic procedure on A.G. Doren; in fact, I argued against it. Sloane was the one who made the decision."
Her expression holds contempt. "Obviously you didn't argue hard enough."
"You don't think so?" he asks, his voice hard. "Believe me, Sydney, I tried everything to stop Allison's- to stop Doren's operation. But Sloane was set on it." He stops, aware he might have gone too far.
But Sydney is looking almost triumphant. "You called her Allison."
He bites his inner cheek. "You allow your fellow operatives to call you Sydney," he says, rather defensively.
Now she seems thoughtful. At last she says, "' Sark' can't be your real name."
She is met with a cool smirk. "Perhaps it is."
"Do you even have a first name?"
"I prefer to keep my . . . origins . . . separate from my professional life, Miss Bristow."
Her next words come out almost in a whisper. "How did you get involved in this life, anyway? This . . . this-world of . . . just . . ." She trails off. She's now looking directly into his clear blue eyes. "There is so much I don't know about you."
He feels a strange sort of leap in his heart, and suddenly he is reminded of seeing Irina in one of her more . . . seductive moods . . . maybe . . . maybe there's something more than just plain curiosity in those brown eyes . . . maybe that's just what it is . . . they're almost too close to each other . . .
Of course. She's only trying to get some extra information out of him. He averts his gaze. "And I think we'll keep it that way," he says quietly.
Sark chances a glance back at her in a few minutes. She looks rather downcast.
Briskly, he changes the subject before she manages to change his mind. "We're landing in ten minutes. We should reach the alleged 'hide-out' in an hour."
Sydney nods in acknowledgement and immediately returns to her book.
Sark stands and strides over to the window, looking below them at the endless sea of clouds.
* * *
MADRID
24 Hours Earlier
"I've planted the evidence, it should be discovered within the next two days."
Irina gives him a short, approving nod. Sark hesitates before changing the subject to the one he is most concerned about.
"Have you taken any action-regarding Doren?"
Irina sighs. "Since the escapes of you and Tippin, they've been reconfiguring their internal network. It's made it much more difficult to access. All we know is that she's alive and undergoing intense interrogations."
He'd been expecting more. Now he feels something cold slam into his chest. "We have nothing."
"Sark-" Irina starts, but falls silent. She begins again in a quieter tone. "As soon as we finish infiltrating the new network, I promise you . . . we will have something."
Sark stares down at the well-polished wood of her desk.
Abruptly Irina takes out a slim folder and places it in front of him. "An asset in Jakarta sent communications to us, regarding Sloane's whereabouts. It's believed he's taken refuge under a member of the Mahala Kej, a small organization of revolutionaries. I'm sending in you and Sydney, along with a separate team. You'll find the details of the mission here."
"When do we leave?"
"Two hours. Op tech has already been prepared."
Sark rises, picks up the folder, and exits the office.
* * *
He turns back around to face Sydney.
He chooses his words carefully. "I don't think it will be difficult for you to remember the-incident in Mexico City at the Vatican Embassy."
Sydney does not look up, but continues to stare down at the page.
"Your CIA picked up a transmission with several key words . . . terrorist attack . . . weapons of mass destruction . . . Rambaldi. Didn't you wonder where it was sent from, why someone would use those key words in an actual conversation?"
"I was too busy wondering what type of . . . [i] person [/i] would choose to incinerate sixty-two innocent people for the sake of killing one." There is cold fury on her face.
"I sent that transmission." He pauses. "My job compels me to perform some unpleasant tasks, but it's not as though my conscience has completely eroded."
"And here I was with the impression that you'd been born without one." Before he can reply, she goes on, "It's like I told you before. We have nothing in common. We are not friends. And we will never become friends."
"But we're allies, now, Miss Bristow." She doesn't reply.
"Which means that for now, we have to trust each other."
