Chapter 9: Bermuda
(Sydney)
It's four in the morning, I haven't had a good long sleep in days, and the thought of eluding our enemies by going to Bermuda is the funniest thing I've ever heard. We are trying to disappear in the Bermuda triangle. I try to stifle the giggles, but my shoulders shake. Sark looks at me, puts a hand on my thigh, and seems confused to see my smile. I know my laughter is completely inappropriate. It's some bizarre reaction to stress and fatigue.
He says something, but I can't hear it over the roar of the seaplane's engines. We are trying to disappear in the Bermuda triangle. His head is cocked to the side, mouth drawn into a slight frown. Trying to figure me out, trying to figure out what's so damn funny.
We are so low I can see the white crests of breaking waves below us. I don't know how much Sark paid the pilot to fly so low. A strong downward draft could seriously screw up our nebulous plans. Let's just say we didn't plan on disappearing in a plane crash. We had something more glamorous in mind, involving nearly a billion dollars and a tropical sunset. I'm laughing again, but now there are tears streaming down my face as well, and I can't decide if they're from laughing so hard or from something else entirely. The best laid plans of mice and men…
(Sark)
She's bordering on hysterical. I've never seen her quite like this. Cold fury, hot rage, and a million shades of disdain are easier to understand. I wonder briefly if she's cracking up under the pressure. Three hours left in our six hour flight. Sydney stops: Stops laughing, stops crying, and falls suddenly asleep against the window, with the first rays of sun shining through her hair.
We land mid-morning just off the coast, on a mostly deserted stretch of island, and paddle to shore in an inflatable raft. Sydney slashes a hole in the rubber and deflates it, weights it down under water with a large rock.
"Where are we going?" she asks, one hand on her hip, one hand shading her eyes.
The whole world is our playground, or rather, our playing board. We can go anywhere. The feeling is liberating, for a moment. But wherever we go, they will follow.
"I don't know. Where do you want to go?"
She is silent, looking at me with another strange expression: mournful but smiling. In Utah sometimes it will rain but never reach the ground. It evaporates in the dry air. Her face is full of tears that don't quite fall and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"We need protection," she finaly speaks. "There are people who may still be willing to help us."
"Your mother."
A weak smile, half grimace, really.
"You don't really want to go to her."
"No," she sighs, "I don't. But they're gaining on us."
"First things first, let's get breakfast."
I reach for her hand, and she let's me hold it. We walk along the side of the road looking for all the world like a couple on vacation, except that we are carrying concealed weapons and an assortment of false passports and licenses. The sun is getting high, and the day is already too warm. Sweat beads on my forehead and rolls down my face, dampens my shirt against my skin.
"Julian?"
"Yes?"
She rarely uses my given name. She whispers it to me at night, like a priceless artifact that could be damaged by the light.
"My father wants me to go back to the CIA."
"You would be safe with them. Safer than with me."
"That's all you have to say about it?"
She has stopped, her brows furrowed with a crease between them.
"I won't tell you not to go. I have no claim on you, Sydney. You don't have to stay with me. You can go back to the States, maybe even back to the CIA, and live, find some fool to marry who will worship the ground you walk on. You still have a chance at a normal life, Sydney: three perfect children, a house, a safe job, coworkers who serve cake on your birthday. You won't have any of that with me. All we have is this burning passion, maybe love, and a price on our heads. Every second you stay with me is one more than I expected, and one closer to our deaths."
"You want me to go."
"I didn't say that. I merely said that that would be the prudent course of action."
"If only I was a prudent person…"
We resumed walking, her hands in her pockets now.
(Sydney)
I catch the manager in the parking garage, and withdraw half a million Euros from one of the smaller accounts without ever setting foot in the bank. I have grown incredibly blasé about toting around huge amounts of cash, several thousand in my wallet and Sark's, the rest concealed at my waist and his.
We stop for a drink at an open air café. The air is thick and humid and though cooler in the shade, it is also more stagnant than on the street. I order orange soda and get a glass of mineral water with a hint of fresh squeezed orange, barely sweet, pulp floating in the glass, and chilled. I take a gulp, and then hold the glass to my forehead.
Sark flips through a newspaper and drinks black coffee. He looks just as hot as I feel but will never admit it.
"How do we find her? My father is still in contact with her, but I can't exactly call him up and ask him."
"She's still in the game, I imagine, especially now that we've helped to destroy her biggest rival. There are several bases in Europe that may still be active. We can start there."
(Sark)
Another midnight plane ride took us to a private airfield in Austria. Sydney slept this time, but struggled and mumbled in fear against my shoulder. Perhaps I should have woken her. But I am tired of seeing dark hollows under her eyes from insomnia. As we walked down the steps Sydney shivered in the brisk air. The limousine was waiting to take us to Vienna, our starting point.
I guided her towards the car with my hand at the small of her back. She claims she only took a few lessons, but she responds perfectly to the gentle pressure, both on and off the dancefloor. I open the door for her to slide in. She puts one leg in and recoils as if burned.
"Sydney?"
She presses back against me. I open the door further to see inside, though I already know what I will find.
"Hello Sydney, Mr. Sark."
Irina's voice is smooth and haughty. She is impeccably dressed, with her hair twisted up in a demure chignon and brilliant diamond earrings that catch the thin morning light. A conservative but well-tailored suit hugs her lithe frame. Sydney's clenches her hands into fists, and I put a hand on her shoulder, pull her back to place myself between her and her mother.
"Irina," she acknowledges, a slight quiver in her voice, then asks: "How did you find us?"
"I taught your companion everything he knows," she responded, "and Julian has become incredibly predictable over last few weeks."
This time I cringe, at the use of my given name. Sydney's gaze doesn't waver. Mother and daughter are locked in some bizarre staring contest, some battle of wills that I can only begin to understand.
"Well, are you coming or not?"
I slide into the seat beside Irina. After a moment Sydney enters, and sits stiffly next to me. The engine purrs and we head east, into the rising sun. The day is young, full of promise. I sit between two women joined by blood and torn apart by lies: one in her prime, one still a rising star, so different and undeniably the same. For once in my life I have no idea how it will all play out.