ATHENS

Sark is driving the car, looking straight ahead at the lightly crowded streets, avoiding meeting Allison's eyes. She, in turn, isn't facing anywhere near him.

"There are so many things we should talk about," Allison says quietly, her eyes still on the road.

Sark makes a smooth turn around the corner. "What is there left to talk about?"

"Everything."

After a moment's pause, Sark says abruptly, "So. Let's talk. We'll start at the beginning. When did you first fall for Tippin?"

He can sense her irritation and embarrassment and says, "There's really no point in denying it, Allison. I'm merely curious."

"The hour after I had extracted the first of our intel from him."

Sark can almost feel the old wound rising up in him. At least she is being honest.

"I see. Would it be correct to assume you still harbor these emotions for him?"

He hasn't been this cold in awhile – but then, cold is all he's been lately. Nothing but cold and distance. Even with Irina.

She finally looks at him, a steely, stubborn look in her eyes. "I care nothing for Will Tippin anymore. And I will swear to that." When he doesn't respond, she adds, "And I know you've been sleeping with Bristow."

Sark also breaks his stare and turns to her. "Unlike my former relationship with you, I define my relationship with Sydney as something more than a mere evening pleasure every couple of months."

"There was something else there with me, and you won't admit it, no matter what I say."

Sark makes a tight swerve around the bend. "I won't admit to what never existed."

He pulls the car to a sudden stop. The old church of St. Athanasius looms over them, the unseen catacombs being borne upon.

Sark glances back at Allison. "Are you ready?"

"What makes you think I'm not?" She opens the car door, steps out wearing a conservative black coat and dark clothing, and begins to walk in the church. Sark had half-heartedly objected to going in the catacombs himself, for a number of reasons. He just wasn't feeling up to it.

Allison will send the pictures of the code to Sark, once she has taken a clear image of it. It is fairly straightforward. Easy enough to be done solo, Sark thinks, waiting in silence for her to send in. The only reason he can think to have two agents is that they're tightening their servers' security – there hasn't been word on how Sydney and Sark's location in Argentina was discovered.

An image flashes on the small screen he holds in his hand – a series of numbers and several letters. Coordinates, definitely. 


Allison makes it back in less than ten minutes, sliding into the car with the air of someone who knows just how good they are.

After a look around, Sark suddenly starts the car with a jerk, and they head off to the road.

The place they choose for the night is small but respectable, with a few rooms on several floors. They check in under Sylvia James and William Masters – a couple, sharing a room.

Allison calls Irina around nine, to confirm what they have. She then leaves to take a quick shower.

It is then Sark hears a drone – a quiet, high-pitched, rattling drone. He isn't sure where it is coming from – somewhere on Allison's bed, perhaps – he crosses over and picks up her cell phone, listening. The drone is louder there. It's coming from the phone.

Sark frowns and makes a move to turn it off – and then he stops. He drops the phone and goes to pick up his laptop, opening it as he walks. He takes the telephone cord from the wall, along with a small scrap of wire he reserves for lock-picking. Using the materials, he makes an insert into the cell phone's inner side and plugs it into his computer. Then he begins to type.

Five minutes later, he's staring at a screen. A screen of something his mind doesn't understand.

*              *              *

Allison walks out of the bathroom, hair slightly damp still, not too badly.

"I'm out now if you-"

She is grabbed from behind with a hard, wrenching grasp. Sark's cool voice and the equally cool silver barrel pressed to her head are all she can feel.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Allison – who are you working for, really? Tell me the truth, and I'll let this go, I promise you."

He watches her futile struggle to get out – he has an iron grip, however, and there is no way she can escape from him.

"I swear, Sark, I'm only working for us. For Derevko and the organization-"

Sark's voice wavers a little. "Allison – I don't want to do this, Allison. Just say it and I'll let it go."

Allison makes another lunge to get out. "I SWEAR, Sark, I'm not working for anyone else!"

"Sloane? Is that who it is?" He can feel her desperation – "I'll let it go! Just say the words!"

Allison breathes hard. "Aidan, I swear to God, I don't . . . I wouldn't . . ."

Sark is losing his confident tone now. "Just say the damn words, Allie! That's all I need to hear! Just tell me!"

"But I'm not!" she screams, not caring who hears.

"Say the words!"

She turns as much as she dares and looks at him pleadingly. "Aidan . . ."

The shot rings out.

He drops the gun.

He slowly releases her in numb disbelief as he watches the blood come from her neck, feeling her warmth on his hands, just coated in her blood. He catches sight of her eyes, startled, desperate, teared brown eyes that stay staring at him long after her body touches the ground.

He was wrong. He knows it. He can only stare at her still, lifeless body, as if he is willing her to stand up again and brush it off like nothing has happened. Her blood is everywhere now – his hands feel taut, sticky. Blood – Allison's blood – he never thought her death would come, never like this, never would he have expected it.


He wishes he could take back the shot – his inside is as filled with regrets and holes than the room is with the blood of Allison.

*              *              *

Without reactions, without emotion, he plans a scene. He barely remembers what he has done – it's almost done in a dream-like state. But his training is automatic – her death is not a murder, because he has presented it another, better way. No one would ever know – it's likely no one would ever even care, or give second thought to one more person on the earth, one more tragedy.

Irina's gaze is constant and everywhere, and she knows, she has to, he thinks dully. She knows everything. He could turn to her – he could, but he doesn't because he's afraid. He's so afraid. It's all a haze – someone's going to the spot where the coordinates of the vial are – he doesn't know who it is, but it isn't him. It isn't Allison, not Sydney either, or Jack.

Jack.

The only thoughts his mind haven't visited the last weeks are with Jack. He has almost forgotten the steely, reserved character – he was Sydney's father and he didn't notice him around.

And God, he was Sydney's father.

Jack. Always Jack.

And with this thought in mind, he feels as clear as he has in a long, long time.

*              *              *

SEVILLE

"Mr. Sark. You wanted to see me."

Sark holds his gaze with the impeccable Jack Bristow and finds it much easier than he expected. It's only the second time he's spoken with the man, face to face, with no restricting glass between. "I did, and the reason being – I believe you set Allison Doren up."

Jack allows his face to shift a bit. "I was under the impression that she committed suicide," he says dryly, "unless you're suggesting that something else happened."

Sark knows he doesn't know what he could possibly be getting into by telling Jack this, confronting him like this – it is the only think he can think of. "I am, actually – I admit to being the one who murdered Doren. But for a reason – her cell was on, and I discovered something a bit strange – her cell was pulsing out a signal. Without her knowledge I hacked in and found there was a second line connected on – at the time, I assumed she was working for another organization. She wouldn't confess to it. In the moment, I shot her – and I regret that." His blue eyes stare, hard, at Jack. "And now I suspect it was you who engineered this. Convenient, really," he goes on. "You work through me, get rid of Allison, and thereby remove yourself from guilt entirely, your guilt to Sydney and to yourself."

He sees a slight reaction at Sydney's name, but it vanishes instantly. "Your suspicions, Mr. Sark, have been wrong before, and frankly, they're wrong now. I appreciate your honesty in confessing."

Sark pauses, before going on, "You know, I admire you a lot. In many ways – your devotion to your job – to your family – your abilities as an agent, altogether – and your mastery at game theory. But you've never been, as far as I have seen, all that much of a liar."

Jack only gives him a cold glare. "You may not realize the damage this woman has caused – maybe you do. Perhaps you know what she's done to Sydney, or whatever she's done in the past you seem to have had with her. Maybe you do. And, to let it be known, I respect you. You're the youngest and, nearly, the most talented agent I've ever come across. But you have many, many things to learn, when it comes to trust, and relationships, and doing what you think is best for the people that you most care for. And we have a common goal."

Sark is suddenly pushed into understanding.

"If you care for Sydney, like I think you do, and like she cares for you – you must agree with me that this really is the best possible situation for everyone."

Sark is silent, taking in the words again.

He seems to come to a decision.

"I agree," he says finally.

He could swear he sees a trace of compassion. "Trust me when I tell you that I won't reveal our conversation to anyone."

Sark can feel the calmness now – not the fury he had begun with. Without another word, he nods to Jack, and turns to disappear, walking back to his car, back to go home.