MADRID

The glass feels smooth and strangely comforting in his hands. He slowly raises it and takes one long sip.

He doesn't want to think tonight, nor does he want to feel. He smiles bitterly and takes another drink. Feeling. In training, you weren't supposed to feel. You weren't allowed to feel.

Odd Irina would be the one to teach him that.

He leans back onto the cool leather and gazes around. These walls had been blank when he'd first found the apartment. He'd filed them.

He had decided against red paint for the walls, instead gone for a new, modern style of purple. Not a bright shade, much more muted.

There is a silver, circular mirror directly across from the leather chair. He stares into it, at himself. Nothing different. Perfectly normal.

The slim black folder is lying on the coffee table. He leaves it there. Matthews could take it . . . send him along with Knightley and Crowe . . . oh, to hell with it, I'm not dealing with this now . . . Missions could wait, for the moment. He needs this time, for himself.

He drains the glass and goes to his room to change.

He keeps his pajamas simple: a pair of boxers, sometimes a shirt . . . he's resolved never to buy himself a robe, never. He glances at the clock. A little past midnight.

The doorbell rings. He blinks. Irina? Allison?

He walks quickly to an abstract painting above his dresser, presses the upper left corner, and uncovers the security cameras. Reassuring to have, although he doesn't really expect that the CIA would take the time to ring his doorbell . . . now . . .  front door . . .

Sydney.

He hesitates for a minute before throwing on his shirt and pants again and walking quickly to the door.

Sydney is standing there, looking rather rueful. Somehow he can't get his mouth to move, or say anything.

Sydney seems to be finding it difficult to talk also. "Hi," she says finally, abruptly. "I was harsh, today, after the debrief, to you. And I've thought it over, and I guess, I will go to Argentina . . . I guess I just realized . . . that even a small blow to Sloane . . . is still a blow." She takes a deep breath. "It doesn't really matter if you've already organized a team-"

Sark finally finds his voice. "No, I – I haven't. It's still open."

There is a long pause.

"I . . . I know, I really shouldn't be here . . ."

"No." Her eyebrows go up a notch. "I mean, you know, it's all right . . ." he continues hurriedly, "it's just obviously not . . . the best . . . idea."

Sydney is looking at him with a certain concern. "Are you okay?"

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. Not at his best. Disheveled to say the least.

He turns back to her. "I'm all right. Really."

Her eyes travel back until they rest on the empty wine glass on the coffee table.

"I appreciate your coming to tell me all this before I'd arranged a team," Sark says, bringing her focus back around to him. "It certainly makes things easier." He feels a tinge of color enter his face. He is making a fool out of himself and in front of Sydney Bristow.

There is the barest trace of a smile on her face. "I should go." After a second, she turns and enters the elevator at the end of the hallway.

He closes the door, and looks across the room at the half-empty Merlot bottle. A few seconds pass before he walks past the table and enters his room.

He sees his cell phone lying on the dresser. He turns it off. He doesn't care who needs to call him. In fact, if anyone called him right now he would probably tell them to go to hell. The change was amazing. Like someone had just taken away a huge bundle full of things you were carrying.

He collapses under the sheets and smiles to himself. Aidan. God, it has been so long. "Aidan," he says out loud. "My name is Aidan." Aidan Sark, how odd that sounds. It's better than his old name. He doesn't even want to think about it.

There's a song in his head. Piano music. Someone singing. A woman. He doesn't know what it is or where he's heard it. He listens.

. . . brings such misery and pain . . . I know I'll never be the same . . .  Why can't he recognize it? It's so familiar . . .

I guess I'll never see the light . . . I get the blues most every night . . .

He draws in a sharp breath.

Since I fell for you . . .

Too much wine, he thinks haphazardly. There would be hell to pay in the morning. Irina was not lenient when it came to hangovers.

He smiles a little, lying there, listening to the distant memory of the song.

Since I fell for you.

LOS ANGELES

TRANSMISSION: LOS ANGELES CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER

RECIPIENT: CAMP HARRIS

ALLISON GEORGIA DOREN, NUMBER 45879, HAS BEEN ORDERED TO ARLEN CENTER FOR INTENSIVE QUESTIONING. TRANSFER WILL TAKE PLACE AT 4:00 AM TOMORROW.

DIRECTOR WILLIAM KENDALL

Jack Bristow did not hesitate before hitting "send."