VI: The Envoy

Seven o'clock at night, from the way the shadows fall away from the sea, blending into a hazy gray on the sand beneath him. The sun is a bright red glow on the horizon, rays shining onto the water, making the surface of the ocean glittery, a dark, foreboding sort of glow that looks like Greek fire. Is this what it looked like when Istanbul was besieged? Sayid wonders as he crosses from the hatch, making his way for the beach.

He still hasn't learned what the connection is between the reporter and the island's token annoyance, but he'll learn. He's sure of that. Better to figure it out in its own time rather than hunt for a connection, expecting something grand, and find only the weakest of links with his own situation. There will be time.

There always is time. If he'd had his way, they'd have already struck out in pairs or trios and traversed the whole of the island. They'd have a working map, not just the one that he pored over with Shannon. He'd have been given free rein for that hatch, to figure out just how it works. That will happen some day, though. For now, he ought to see if there's something useful that remains to be done. There generally is.

There will be nights that the security system remains unactivated, when proper guards have not been set up, and while they remain to be done, he won't sleep. Guard duty is a natural habit, and he'd rather do it than leave it to someone less sensible. Who knows what would happen if he left the duty up to the young men, Hurley and Charlie? They are good, but they are not that wise when it comes to things like this.

There is a fire still burning on the beach, small flames indicating there's just a person or two there, and he heads towards it, even as one of the newcomers to the beach rises to greet him.

–––

"What are you doing? Sit down!" And Ibrahim leveled his pistol on Barry Dana. "I will not tell you again, pig."

Barry Dana had started to get up, even with his hands bound. A flurry of activity about his rising had brought Sayid's attention away from the dusty road. He had been watching for traffic behind the reconnaissance vehicle; he glanced over his shoulder to see the journalist wobbling unsteadily further towards the cab of the truck, and balanced the rifle beside him. The Americans would not come after Mr. Dana in the meantime, for the minute or two it took him to deal with the situation.

Time to be unctuous, then, and to smile as kindly as he could do. "Mr. Dana," he began, "Please don't make this harder on yourself than it has to be. I would not want you to get unduly hurt. There is only a little way to the checkpoint, and then you will be given the ability to walk around." In a cell of an all-but-abandoned jail built to house Iranians, he thought, but saw no reason to be so specific to the fellow. Instead, he added, "My friend Ibrahim, you will pardon. He does not speak English as well as I, so his capabilities are limited."

He figured Dana might appreciate the apology. After all, if he himself had to listen to Americans making efforts at speaking Arabic, he probably would have cringed at the aural assault, too. However, Dana looked anything but grateful for such specification.

"We can expedite matters here, by the way, before we get to the jail. All you need to do is to explain to us what you were doing – "

And the truck rattled to a stop, lurching on its frame as the driver put it into park. They were there, at the jail, already, and inwardly Sayid felt a pang of pity for the journalist. It was pity that he could not show, because that would be unwarranted as of yet. He had orders that countermanded such displays of humanity and, as much as he hated it, he would have to follow it. He could not run the risk of having Dana escape.

"There's nothin' that I can tell you. I don't know anything! If I knew somethin', d'you think I'd have gone into territory like this alone, been an idiot enough to blunder into you fellows?"

Yes, I do. "I do not know. But it is not in my position to judge such things. Please, if you'll accompany us."

The politeness stuck in his throat, and rang through his head as they ushered Dana to the holding station. The cells were dingy and dusty, and Dana was not the only one amongst them to cough and hack a bit at all the scents and feelings, even tastes, that attacked the senses. The air in the prison was the worst, thick and old and murky with the blood spilled here through the years, wrapping around fingers, arms, necks, like the ghosts of dead men grabbing at the current jailers to exact what revenge they could.

"I ain't gonna tell you anything."

"So you do know something. Please, tell us."

The journalist stared back at him through the cell door, hate in his eyes. Sayid wondered if he should feel the same for the journalist, or if he should show it even if he didn't feel it. He could not muster the loathing, though. All he felt was pity.

Dana's words snapped back sharply at him. "If I knew anything, ain't no way in hell I would tell you. You Iraqis are all alike. Terrorists, thieves, murderers."

–––

"How are you doing?" And the blond woman has drawn herself up to greet him first, the older couple following in her wake. There is a weird catch in her voice, and her eyes are wide. He wonders if he frightens her. What faces did he make, lost in thought? He decides it's best to aim for a conciliatory smile.

One familiar face. Make that three. He focuses on the one talking to him first: Shannon was soft-featured and young. This woman looks pinched, worn out, older than her years. Sayid can't hold it against her, though, for he's always thought he has as well. To her credit, she was not in favor of the crazy woman's actions, and he can't help but appreciate that.

"I am all right," he says, a little white lie for the sake of propriety, and then looks from her to the couple. "Rose, this is your husband?" It's momentarily strange, seeing an African-American woman and a white man, but they suit each other, and they're in love with one another, so he surpasses that thought rather swiftly. "Bernard?"

"Bernard," the older man confirms, extending a hand. He's dressed for survival, and Sayid notes the utilitarian nature of his clothing; pockets, a sun-hat, what must be mounds of bric-a-brac in the pockets. It gladdens him to see someone who is dressed with some sensibility. At least I'm not the only one.

"It is good that you two have been reunited," he pronounces, wincing a bit at the formality of it. There has to be a better way to say that, but it's too late at night, and he's too deep in thought, to trouble himself with finding it out. At the wince, he spots the blond woman looking quizzically at him, but decides that it's best not to ask. "Forgive my manners. Sayid Jarrah," he tells them, and there are handshakes all around, a solemn exchange that strikes him as almost a ritual.

"You aren't American, Mr. Jarrah?"

"I am from Tikrit, Iraq. I am heading to Los Angeles – was headed to Los Angeles – to find someone." Someone that he has already lost part of on the island, when he lost Shannon, he suspects, but he won't trouble them with that. "I have never been to the United States before. I thought it would be an adventure, but," he allows a broad grin, "I confess I'd never expected this."

–––

"So why did you come to the Middle East anyway, Mr. Dana?"

It had been two weeks. They had spent two weeks dealing with the man, and nothing had worked the way they wanted it. All he'd done was blubber and lose a few teeth, and there was no benefit for them. His officers were getting impatient, and he'd gotten impatient for them as well. The man would talk now, or he would be in trouble when the man died without telling them what they wanted to know.

They had adopted a technique from the Soviets. Dana was allowed to sit down, but only on a stool placed in the center of the room, away from the walls. He was not allowed to sleep. The shifts of guards sprung upon him every time he started to shut his eyes or tilt over, and they had beaten the journalist until he woke again. One of these days, they will drive him unconscious, Sayid suspected, but not today. Today, Sayid had come to the base to find that the man still had not cracked the way they wanted him to crack, and that the last fourteen days had been a waste of time. Today, he would find out what he wanted to know, or Dana would die from the effort.

Dana shifted on the stool, coughing. Sayid wondered what he'd come down with. It was not his place to help the man, however, so he didn't comment on it, only raised his eyebrows to encourage the journalist to an answer.

"I thought it'd be an adventure," Dana finally said, and Sayid could barely hold back laughter at that. "I thought that if I came here, I'd be a hero, you know? 'Barry Dana, journalist. The one man to break the Iraqi lines.' "

"You will be the one that is broken, Mr. Dana, not the Iraqi forces. Tell me, what did you know about the lines, that you knew it was safe to drive in when you did? Had your car not broken down, you might have gotten much further," he informed Dana, amused by the man's surprised expression. He could all but hear the thought: How close I might have gotten. It felt wrong, unhealthy, to relish that sort of awareness in the other man, but he allowed himself that moment. It is better to savor such small details than to enjoy breaking fingers or slicing off ears and tongues.

"There was a communique that came through. A woman. A woman that told us. She's workin' with the rebel forces against your army."

Dread started in the pit of his stomach, spread out to his sides and his arms, worked its way down into his legs. He felt the coursing emotion before he realized specifically what it was, and he did not know why he felt it. This was bad. This was very bad. There was something desperately wrong here, and he needed to pinpoint it. "Tell me about her, Mr. Dana. Perhaps we will not kill you tonight after all."

He knew that was a lie. From the look on Dana's face, the sarcastic twist to the large man's mouth, he knew that the journalist did not believe the lie, either. This relieved him. He never wanted those lies to be believed. He only wanted to be honest.

At least the fellow would die an honest death. It would be a bad death, but it would be a death without illusions, and that was the only thing that he could give the man. It was more than he has given others, and the small act of courtesy pleased him. Perhaps he could be human, after all.

––

The sea stretches out beyond them, waves rolling to some continent he can't quite place, and doesn't really care about as much as he had expected to care. The conversation is good, the buzz of people about him encouraging him to feel a part of them. He can see Shannon's cross in the distance, a crudely fashioned cross. Strange, that they'd put that up and nothing else. Perhaps he'll carve a crescent into it when nobody is looking. However, he cannot do that now.

Now, it is not time to talk about such things. He listens to the newcomers' talk, hears them relate their trials, and shuts his eyes. Perhaps he can catch a few moments' sleep here by the fire, as the warmth of it hangs over him like a hazy and weightless blanket.

Now, it is the time to rest. He will get the answers he needs. He has always gotten them. He shuts his eyes, and he hears gunshots, sees people die: First, numerous soldiers, Americans and Iraqis both. The journalist, his body jerking under the firing squad. Ibrahim, with a gun to his head and his face contorted in rage that only a martyr can have. All of the people in the crash, the plane burning around them and himself doing what he can and wanting to do far more. Shannon's brother, mangled by the fallen equipment. Shannon herself, shot so recently and falling in his arms.

That is the order it has gone in for the past few nights. He is the last to be killed, and the first to die.