Leaving the Shadows
Chapter 2: Into Canada
(Sydney)
I wake to find only empty space where he had been. The heady scent of brewing coffee drifts in from our kitchen. I laugh inwardly. Our kitchen consists of a hot plate and two small cooking pots, powered by a small gasoline generator. Our water comes from several 20-gallon plastic drums. We are hiding in an abandoned building in downtown Detroit, near Dragoon Street, the Ambassador Bridge a scant mile or two away. It's not hard to steal electricity from the city, or water. But that might draw attention to our presence.
"Good morning, Syd."
Sark walks into the room carrying coffee in one hand and a box of cereal in the other.
"It's not even light yet."
"It's best to do this early," he insists, "before the bridge gets too backed up."
"But not too early," I practically recite, "because that wouldn't fit with our cover."
"Precisamente, Alma Medina."
"¡Déjame en paz, que quiero dormir!"
But I take the coffee and step out onto the cold floor. Time to get ready: black wig, dark foundation and bronzer, darkened eyebrows, and I look just like I do in my beautifully forged Spanish passport.Sark's transformation is more dramatic: blond hair dyed brown, brown eyes, brown moustache, and deep crow's feet courtesy of actor's sculpting putty.
(Sark)
The border guard checks the license plates, and sure enough finds the car registered to a rental agency in the Detroit airport.
"How long do you plan to stay in Canada?"
"Five days. We're just going to Toronto for a quick visit," I reply, affecting a slight castellano accent.
"My sister is a freshman at the university," Sydney chimes in, smiling.
"Where will you be staying?"
"Alma, ¿dónde es la reservación?"
"It's right here in the seat pocket. Pos, lo puse en…"
She rummages through her purse next and I give the guard an apologetic smile.
"Ah…aquí es." Sydney hands it to me.
"We have a suite at the Toronto Hilton, on 145 Richmond—"
"Fine. That's fine, Mr. and Mrs. Medina. Have a nice trip."
The gate lifts and I pull slowly through. We follow the surface roads for five miles through Windsor and then merge onto route 401. In eight hours we'll be in Ottawa.
(Sydney)
The safe house in Ottawa is my belongs to my father. There is a note on the kitchen table: Sydney, everything you asked for is here. Be careful. If you need anything at all contact me. Love, Dad.
But I can't call him. He already knows too much. For his own safety, I will not talk to him directly until this is all over. I practically fall into the chair, the note still in my hand. Sark kneels on the linoleum floor beside me, a hand on my thigh.
"It has to be this way, Syd."
His eyes are so blue, like glacier ice. I want to cry. I want to wrap my arms around him and sob.
"I know."
He rubs my shoulders, kneading the tense muscles until I began to soften, until my head practically lolls back against him. Sometimes there is still a lot of silence between us.
(Sark)
Five days from now, United States border records will show Mr. and Mrs. Medina re-entered the country via the Windsor tunnel, and flew back to Madrid two days later. Meanwhile, Sydney Bristow will be inserted into surveillance footage at the Tokyo International Airport. And I will rent a car in Vienna and check into a small hotel near the center of town, just a few blocks from the Ringstrausse.
Several months of false leads are planned: plane tickets, customs reports, rental cars, hotel reservation. Mr. Bristow was instrumental in setting it up. While the remnants of the Covenant bicker and squabble and follow our trail of breadcrumbs, we will be hidden away on a small island off the coast of Belize.
The living room is filled with boxes of cold weather gear, for Nunavut. We stuff most of it in the car and sink it in the river. The rest, along with stubs for a charter flight from Ottawa north to Iqlaluit, we leave in the safehouse. Yet another diversion.
When I first suggested Nunavut as our hideout, Sydney shot the idea down. She said she would not sleep in a body bag in a place with no sunlight until she was good and dead. She protested with such vehemency that I didn't even try to argue the advantages of the far north: inaccesibility, total lack of organized criminal activity.
(Sydney)
He is quiet and brooding, with a glass of red wine in one hand. On our way back from the river we stopped at a liquor store. Just your typical couple, hand in hand, planning to drink away an evening and make love all night. I love these moments where I can feel almost normal, unless I think to far back or too far ahead. Aside from the fact that we just crossed a border in disguise and sank a car to cover our tracks, and aside from the fact that we fly out tomorrow morning, this vignette could be seen in a million homes all over the world. A man drinks a glass of wine, his other arm around the woman he loves, curled against his side with her feet up on the couch.
He is warm and solid. I take a swig from my own glass. Little by little the alcohol warms me, clouds my head just slightly, and makes my limbs tingle where our bodies contact.
"I like you better as a blond, you know," I say to break the silence, and because the wine has made me giddy and a bit to honest.
"Oh really?"
He raises an eyebrow at me, amused I guess by my inebriation. I can't stop myself from running a hand through his hair.
"Promise me you'll bleach it?"
He laughs outright this time.
"What's in it for me?"
He sets down his wine, and turns towards me. I lean forward to kiss him. He tastes like red wine and I move to straddle his lap.
"Sydney, we have to get up early tomorrow. You should sleep."
"I don't care."
But he braces his hands on my hips, and gently pushed me back.
"Soon we'll have all the time in world for this, Sydney," he whispers in my ear. And it is the most romantic thing I have ever heard him say. Usually he is all business, all aliases and flight schedules. "In Belize we can sit on the beach all day and drink rum, swim in the ocean and make love outside under the palms."
"I can't wait," I say, and nuzzle against his neck.
He gets up and drags me to bed, spooning me against his chest. I drift off quickly, but before I am completely gone he whispers "neither can I" and kisses my cheek.