MIRROR IMAGE

Rating: R
Timeline: Mid-season 3, after "Blowback."

Part V, Act 4

It was Jack who began the interrogation, seated across from him in the back of Sark's modified town car on the way to Sloane's chosen meet. Sydney, doubtless knowing everything she ever wanted to know of him and then some, gazed, troubled, out the window, anxiety (he presumed) creasing her forehead. Jack began it with one word, forcefully, evenly delivered: "Why?"

"You'll have to be more specific," Sark answered glibly, sipping champagne and feeling finer than he had since before he had gone to Sloane three years before with Irina's offer of partnership.

"Everything we know about you indicates your final loyalty lies with Derevko."

"Then obviously you do not know enough." He sipped again once more, the flavor calming him. "The woman traded my whereabouts merely in order to win her way back into her daughter's good graces. She left me to rot in the same CIA cell I assisted in extracting her from. She betrayed me, Mr. Bristow."

Which this man, of course, knew everything about. Sark met his eyes steadily, serenely, and was almost flattered when he received a curt nod.

Sydney turned away from the window, leaned towards him, and her voice teetered obviously on the edge of fury as she spoke. "You protected her secrets while in custody."

She'd read the files, of course. In her quest to understand the time she had lost. I would have told them to you, Sydney. But she hadn't asked. She hadn't been there to do so. And now it was too late for such conversations. They had become meaningless, and impossible.

He grimaced, but chose to answer. "Yes."

"Why?" she demanded.

"Old habits," Jack answered for him, "die hard. Particularly where Irina Derevko is concerned."

Too true, Sark thought, but said nothing. It was, he reflected, something all three of them could understand.

"I do wonder," Jack continued, a coldly assessing gleam in his eyes, "what else drives you. If all you wanted was revenge, you would have brought her down already. You obviously still have her trust."

As much as anyone does, Jack didn't have to say.

"Money," Sydney said from the window, and there were wells of disgust, if distant, in her voice that startled him. She was gazing out at the passing landscape again, divorcing herself from the conversation taking place. It was likely better for him, her lack of involvement; he had a tendency to say too much where Derevko women were concerned. Though there was little to be lost from full disclosure now.

"Sydney," and Jack's eyes narrowed at Sark's familiar use, "is correct. He sat the glass down, with precision, and leaned back in his seat. "When your daughter informed me of her conversation with Arvin Sloane, I took it upon myself to track him down. I was . . . concerned . . . about his motives."

He ignored Sydney's snort.

"I also knew that the nature of his work with the Covenant could put my own aims, to recapture my family fortune, in jeopardy."

Jack: "You found Sloane, then."

"It was hardly difficult. I returned to his building—where I was stopped even before I reached the entrance."

Lending credibility to his suspicion that the whole scenario had been a set-up. To get Sydney there, with Agent Vaughn's presence a contingency plan. The only thing he still could not grasp was how the man had known Sydney was not, so to speak, herself, but it did not surprise him.

"He could have killed me, I suppose, but he did not." Nor had he offered him a drink—something Sark took to be a reassuring omen. "He told me had Mr. Vaughn."

Sark inclined his head towards Sydney in as much apology as he would lower himself to. He cared not one way or the other for the man, but for Sydney he was moved to pity. There had been people he himself had cared about, after all. Their lives had not ended well.

She refused to acknowledge him.

"He also," Sark continued, "told me he would not interfere with my work if I assisted Sydney in procuring the disk—and in delivering it to him, in exchange for her paramour, when the time came."

Jack's mouth thinned, and by his tone Sark could not determine whether he disapproved of his choice or condoned it. Not that it mattered. "And you agreed."

Of course he had agreed. "I agreed. The first step was one to which I had already committed myself. And the second, I assumed, I would be able to reevaluate when the time came. An assumption which Sloane anticipated, apparently, as the codes to access my money were incomplete."

"No wonder you were pissed," Sydney muttered.

"You believe Sloane has the rest of the access codes," Jack said.

"I know he does. I received a message this evening."

Sydney's eyes narrowed as she turned back towards him. "How?" She was suspicious; he would have been the same, in her place.

"From one of my own men." The thought still rankled. He'd been so focused on his deception of the Covenant of late that he had unwittingly allowed his control over his small empire to slip somewhat—it was the only explanation he could fathom. His people were loyal; Irina had taught him that. Loyal, and smart enough to know their loyalty was what bought them their lives. He'd have to pay more attention in the future.

Sydney's eyes were still slitted. "How devastating for you." She could be nearly as dry as her father, when she so chose.

He was tempted to tell her he'd had the man killed—you couldn't reward such behavior, it simply wasn't prudent—but the difficulty of her disgust, the tediousness of her self-righteousness, was not worth the satisfaction he'd gain from making her blanche.

"Sloane's message?" Jack interrupted. If he hadn't known better, Sark might have suspected Jack Bristow was irritated with his daughter.

"That I should be prepared to meet the second part of my bargain. That he was prepared to meet his. When Sydney came to my rooms—"

"Sark!"

He smirked. He wouldn't have finished the sentence; he valued his own life too highly, and he expected Jack Bristow would not take kindly to the idea of his little girl in Julian Sark's bed, no matter what her purpose in being there. But these explanations were already becoming tiresome. "Suffice it to say, I meant what I said. I will not endanger Mr. Vaughn. I have as much interest in seeing this trade go smoothly as you do."

"Irina underestimated you," Jack judged, finally.

"Yes." And now Sark had lost his advantage. He only hoped he'd used it wisely.

Jack was study him—weighing, no doubt, the details of his story, the likelihood that what he was giving them was the truth. And for once, it was: he was being entirely up front. Sark shifted in his seat to reclaim his glass, and felt the press of the compact data disk against his leg. Well, largely up front.

"Did Sloane give you any indication as to how the trade will proceed?"

Jack had, apparently, accepted the validity of Sark's tale. A fortunate assessment, especially as this was Sark's vehicle, Sark's man driving it and Sark's assistance that had gotten them this far. Oh, he had no doubt they would have succeeded without him. Both father and daughter were capable, resourceful. But he hadn't given them the opportunity, and being who they were—at least, Sydney being who she was, no matter how much she might spit and threaten—they would feel beholden to him.

He enjoyed that prospect. He was, in fact, beginning to feel more and more like his old self every moment. And very soon he would be independently wealthy, as well, in a manner which made his current assets pale in comparison. He was looking forward to it, to the fruits of his long labor. He'd buy Sydney something, he decided—something too pretty for her to throw away, but which would antagonize every time she laid eyes on it. He nearly smiled just thinking of it.

"None," he answered Jack lightly. "But I have no doubts Sloane will play fair. After all, he has no further use for Agent Vaughn. And if, in the future, that were to change, one would presume apprehending him would be as easy a second time."

"I can't believe I ever—" Sydney began to say, then stopped, choked, fists clenched, perhaps unsure as to how to finish her sentence. He was curious himself.

"You've always known what I am," he said to her, plainly if somewhat regretfully. It might have been better for her if she had not.

"You—"

"Whatever it is," Jack Bristow interrupted, "that is keeping the both of you from focusing on the problem at hand, I suggest you put it aside." His tone made it clear he did not want to know; or did know, and wished he did not. "I don't have the faith in Arvin that you do, Mr. Sark. If this trade is to happen successfully, there are things we need to establish ahead of time."

At her father's words, Sydney straightened in her seat: slowly, visibly, inexorably. She was of a mind, her self-control rivaled her father's.

"Of course," Sark said, turning his attention to the confrontation that lay before them. He folded his hands calmly in his lap, and allowed his mouth to turn up in a smile. "How may I be of assistance?"

A/N: All caught up now—only one more chapter, and then the thrilling conclusion! (Thanks so much to anybody who's left a review; I'll respond more individually next chapter. Now I'm just glad to have gotten my wireless to work long enough to get these three up!)