Their flight passes mostly in silence, with the two women making some polite tight-lipped smiles at each other and Lauren asking if Sydney was getting settled in to her new place.
"There're still a lot of things I need to get, but it's alright," Sydney replies.
"Well, if you need to borrow anything, just let me or Michael know," Lauren smiles and nods to endorse her own suggestion. "We wound up with nearly two of everything after the wedding."
Sydney forces a smile but inside, she wants to cause Lauren bodily harm. Pull her perfect blonde hair—make that her perfectly dyed blonde hair—twist her nose, flick her cheek; anything to make her flinch and retract that blandly insensitive statement about how she was now married to the man Sydney couldn't believe she'd lost. What kind of social reject says something like that to someone who can't remember where they've been?
She merely replies, "Thanks, that's very generous of you."
They haven't been at the hotel for even five minutes when it all goes south: a van screeches to a halt in the hotel's turnaround and they nab Sloane, who was ambling into the lobby.
She's in the process of giving futile chase to the speeding vehicle on foot when Lauren squeals up beside her in their rental.
"Get in!" she yells, and Sydney obeys without thinking. Only after they are barreling past parked cars and narrowly avoiding pedestrians who shout obscenities after them does she think to ask, "Do you know what you're doing?"
"I cross-trained at the Farm!" Lauren retorts over the roar of the engine as she guns it through a light that's decidedly more red than yellow.
Sydney grips the dashboard and is hesitant to take her eyes off their path, but when she does, she finds Lauren's eyes narrowed in concentration and her lips set in a grimly determined line. Perhaps she's not trying to kill off her husband's ex-girlfriend in a car accident after all. "Are you field-rated?" she asks anyway.
"No." Lauren doesn't look away from the road, swerving to avoid a bicycle that appeared out from behind a building.
Of course not.
The chase is over before it's really gotten going, with a delivery truck backing into the alley they're following the van through and cutting them off.
"Damnit!" Lauren smacks the wheel with the heel of her hand, "Damnit!"
Sydney notices that she looks rather pleased with herself for someone who just nearly got them both killed, or at least maimed beyond recognition. She wonders if Vaughn could be into crippled women.
Back in LA, there is no trace of Sloane for the next 48 hours. It's agonizing to listen to her coworkers being concerned about his well-being and safety, this man who so thoughtlessly sacrificed the lives of others in service of his own gain. As she's leaving for the day, her cell phone bleats from her purse just before she reaches the elevator.
"This is Agent Bristow," she answers.
"It's me."
Sark. How did he get her cell number?
"Where is Sloane," she lowers her voice and covers her mouth with her hand to camouflage it from anyone who might be monitoring her and reading her lips.
"He's safe, and will be resurfacing within several hours, I imagine," Sark explains. "We need to meet- where are you?"
"You'll have to forgive me, but I really can't leave work for a personal liaison right now," her voice is cold. She's still angry that he left her in the dark about the Bomani extraction. It infuriates her that he chuckles and purrs, "Sydney, really. I wanted to talk business, but if you insist—"
"Don't flatter yourself," she retorts, "Can you meet me at the observatory in an hour?"
"I'll likely beat you there. See you then."
He hangs up before she can even say he should be careful.
Bastard.
Surprisingly, she beats him there, and she loiters at the lookout point for several minutes before she hears the engine of another car in the parking lot behind her. She turns only a fraction of the way towards the lot, and out of her peripheral vision, sees him striding in her general direction. His camel-colored leather coat is befitting of a pimp, and the cream turtleneck underneath reminds her of a ski instructor, but she has to admit: he wears the ensemble well. His mirrored sunglasses are firmly in place as he steps to the edge of the lookout several feet away from her.
"You're late," she scolds without looking at him.
"You're early—were you speeding?" he goads.
"What's going on?"
"Sloane has given the Covenant intel on his contacts within the Japanese Yakuza, who've developed an artificial intelligence computer virus. The Covenant want it for something."
"Why didn't you tell me about the Bomani extraction?"
"I didn't know," Sark sighs, his tone clipped.
"Bullshit," she spits. "You knew ahead of time."
"I'm afraid you've overestimated my place within the Covenant, Sydney," he replies evenly, but with a hint of irritation at this realization. "Despite my role as their primary financier, I'm barely more than grunt labor to them. I only know about the Yakuza contacts because I was in the room when Sloane gave up the information."
"So what's next?"
"I believe Sloane intends to make himself inroads with the Covenant while presenting himself to the CIA as a neutral third party," Sark's tone belies his suspicion. "This way he can gain the trust of the higher-ups within the Covenant as it benefits him but not violate his pardon agreement with the US government because he is in fact helping the CIA."
"You don't believe Sloane's conversion either, then," she says.
He is silent, but glances towards her feet with pursed lips. "It's really the only way he can play this to make it seem like he was abducted and not a willing participant."
"How will the Covenant get the virus?"
"Apparently Bomani and I are to steal it from a computer terminal in Osaka… in a Yakuza-owned casino."
"Can't you delay them long enough for us to get there first and disable it?"
"I thought of that, but it seems rather obvious, don't you think? That would make a failure two missions of my design in a row, which seems unwise given my status with the organization at this point. The failed biological agent buy didn't resonate well with the boss."
"What if you steal it, but give us a copy that we can disable remotely before the Covenant puts it to use?"
"That will depend on what Sloane proposes when he reappears. If he intends to play this as though he's helping the CIA, your plan will likely be the best. That way, he can hang himself if he's found out to be cooperating with the enemy on the side."
She nods, turning it over in her head. "There's just one thing—how do we know you're not allied with Sloane?"
He nods, lips pressed thinly together. "I was waiting for you to say that."
"It wouldn't exactly be the first time," Sydney replies.
"I admit, you have only my word and my recent cooperation as proof," he says thoughtfully. "I think Sloane's utter lack of assistance with my legal situation after I was taken into custody might speak for my cause. Spending two years in federal custody was hardly part of my life's plan."
She sighs deeply. "This has to work correctly. You know my father and I are both on probation with the agency as well."
"Astonishing that they don't trust former double agents," Sark replies wryly. "Don't worry, you'll get your copy of the virus soon enough."
The gravel crunches under his heel as he turns to walk back to his car, and she resists the urge to look after him when she catches the scent of his cologne in the light breeze. She closes her eyes and sighs deeply, and waits several more minutes before extracting her phone from her pocket and dialing her father's number.
"Dad, it's me," she says softly. "We need to meet."