"If money's all you're after, Mom," Sark said sarcastically, "I'd be happy to give you your portion of the nest egg."
Anastasia's blue eyes glittered with the idea of finally getting what she was due.
His plan was taking shape. "First of all, you need to let them go," he motioned with his head to Sydney and Irina, "And then we can discuss the transfer of funds to wherever you'd like."
"We're leaving together," Irina interjected, "I won't leave Julian behind."
"How noble of you," Anastasia sneered at her one-time friend, "Honestly, Irina, I wouldn't have expected you to turn out to be the more maternal of the two of us."
Sydney could barely believe her ears. Sark was going to willing turn over his money to Anastasia in exchange for their freedom? This was the kind of altruism you only read about in books. Very naïve books.
She could sense Irina's distrust of the situation, but she wasn't about to give them away. Whatever Sark had in mind, it was better than her plan, which was currently no plan at all. Irina's web of lies and betrayal was impenetrable to her. If Sark wanted to make sure she stayed alive, it was up to him.
"Get a pen," Sark said shortly, "Or have one of your lackeys get one. I'm giving you the account number, and you're going to loan us one of your cars so that we can drive ourselves back to civilization."
"How will we get the car back," Anastasia asked, and Sark wondered silently why someone who thought they were about to get a large sum of money was worried about losing a crappy town car. Then again, not everyone had had the benefit of working in the kind of organized crime syndicates he'd had the dubious pleasure of being part of in his short years on the planet.
Wells appeared at his shoulder with a pad of paper and a pen. Anastasia motioned him towards Sark and Sydney watched silently as he took them and wrote rapidly, in that same precise slanting cursive that had been on the hotel stationary, explaining at the same time. "The account doesn't have that much in it, but I assure you, it's more than enough to make you comfortable. Escort us outside, and you get the account number."
Anastasia nodded, and rose to her full height. "Follow me."
Up, past the dead bodies and out into the night they went; Sydney was mildly surprised to discover it was much later than she'd realized. She felt immediately better in the fresh air, like she could breathe all the way to the bottom of her lungs without the threat of vomiting. It was a welcome change.
Shortly, Wells pulled up with another nondescript sedan, smaller by far than the limo he and Wells had ridden to AMS Inc. in, but certainly adequate for the three of them.
"Get in," he said to Irina and Sydney, without taking his eyes from Anastasia. They glanced at each other, but did as he ordered. He creased the little piece of paper several times before handing it to Anastasia. "Well," he said with import, "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
His mother flipped her long auburn hair over her shoulder and unfolded the paper long enough to glance at the account number. She nodded silently, and leaned forward as if to kiss him on the cheek, but he held up his hand between them. "Don't."
Without another word, he turned and climbed into the driver's seat of the sedan. Took one last glance at them, and then pulled the door shut with a muted thump.
Jack and Franklin hovered behind Agent Stevens as she accessed the bank records for Van der Zuiden Bank, Grand Cayman. Jack scowled and tapped his foot, as much impatience as he would allow himself to show.
"Well," Stevens said finally, "The account had several large withdrawals made back in late May and in early June, and there's a tiny balance left."
"How much?" Jack asked.
"Forty-seven dollars and forty-seven cents," Stevens scowled, "That's a really strange amount of money to leave in an account, don't you think?"
Jack ignored her comment and turned to Franklin. "I took the liberty of calling Director Chase before I stopped by your place. She's ready to talk to you now."
Franklin only nodded, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. One of the other newbies was working late at his desk, and Franklin gave him a short little wave as they walked past his workstation towards the administrative offices.
Sydney lay her cheek against the cool, fragrant leather in the back seat of the borrowed sedan and listened through the haze of her headache as Sark and her mother argued.
"We need to ditch the car somewhere," Sark interrupted Irina's tirade, "It's most likely equipped with a GPS tracker, we don't want them to catch up with us."
"Good luck getting a cab in this part of town," Irina said, "So what happens now? Where are you going to go with no money?"
"Why would you assume I have no money," Sark retorted, "Money is the least of my worries. You honestly think I would give them the number to an account that had liquid funds in it?"
"How much is in that account?" Irina demanded. "What makes you think they won't hunt you down when they discover it's not the goldmine they were after?"
Sark smirked, Sydney could see it in the rearview mirror. "I left it with a balance of forty-seven forty-seven," he said, glancing at Irina with a shrug. "For old times' sake."
Irina accepted this without comment and stared straight ahead out the windshield. They were nearing the city center.
"Hey," Sark said over his shoulder, "Are you going to make it back there?"
"I've survived worse," she mumbled. Irina turned then and knelt over the seat, first placing her hand on Sydney's forehead, then pressing her palm to her cheek. Irina smiled a little, and said, "You're going to be fine, sweetheart. You just get grouchy when your blood sugar gets low."
Abruptly, Sark pulled over and shut the engine off. "I think we should separate," he suggested. "It's harder to keep tabs on individual people than a small group."
"I'll go," Irina volunteered. "You need to take care of her," she looked hard at Sark, "Make sure she gets something to eat, and soon. Get out of the car for a minute," she ordered him.
He did as she asked, and when the door had shut behind him, Irina turned back to her. Sydney struggled up into a sitting position, propping herself up with one arm against the deep cushion of the back seat. Any change in her posture sent a wave of nausea through her. She forced herself to look at Irina, who obviously had something to say to her.
"You didn't get to talk to Vaughn, then," Irina began, "Jack says Sark double-crossed you on your arrangement."
"Mom," Sydney shook her head, "It's not worth discussing, we can't change what's done."
"I hope this is what you want, Sydney," she said slowly, "I can't pretend to understand your motivations, because this is not what I had hoped for you."
Sydney was suddenly acutely aware of how tired she was. Just… tired. Bone-tired. Like she could sleep for a week.
"I know, Mom," she whispered. A wave of curiosity overcame her, and she said, "Mom… you and Sloane, you were going to kill him, weren't you—he was right."
Irina just looked at her older child, her face an impenetrable mask of concern.
"Be safe," Irina said, stroking the side of her face. "You know I love you."