II. The Jetset Life Is Gonna Kill You
There's an old Chinese curse:
'May you live in interesting times.'
Even in a small, swift CIA plane, the flight to Australia was nothing to scoff at. It didn't faze Quint Larson, who was munching his way through an improbably large bag of chips— but then again, things rarely seemed to faze him. Since the Lauren debacle and the weeks in which Vaughn's security clearance was revoked, Larson had been assigned as Sydney's partner for most missions in the field, and once she realized he was capable of being professional when he had to be, she'd come to appreciate his remarkably laid-back personality. It was better than being in a plane with Vaughn or her father, where things inevitably seemed to get tense.
Nevertheless . . .
"You're telling me you're still hungry?" she asked, as if the evidence weren't right in front of her.
Since his face was pretty well stuffed, Quint just widened his eyes expressively. They were much more decisively blue than Sark's, a bright sort of color that didn't look quite real. "Remind me to get some of these in Australia," he said when he'd swallowed most of the chips. "Doritos are different there."
"I'll try to remember."
"A chup," said Quint in a bizarre voice. "A puh-tay-tuh chup. YouTube," he added by way of explanation when Sydney shot him a look that questioned his sanity.
"Never a dull moment," she sighed, stretching her feet out onto the seat facing hers.
"You need to get out more. And by 'out,' I mean 'on the internet.'"
"Thanks, but I think I've got enough things to worry about."
"Exactly," Quint told her, popping another chip in his mouth. "Kick back, relax for a bit, introduce yourself to Salad Fingers."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Ahh lahhke rustay spoooons." This voice was even stranger than the first.
"Are you sure you're a CIA agent?" she asked dryly, but the corners of her mouth were twitching upwards.
"Pretty sure it's what my ID says…" He made a show of digging around in his pockets until he came up with his badge, then held it very close to his face. "Oh god, I'm a plumber. Can we— can we turn this plane around?" he yelled, looking around as if the pilots would be in the seating area with them. "I'm a fraud!"
"Shhh," Sydney told him, gesturing for him to calm down but also giggling, which sort of ruined the effect. She was supposed to be the senior agent, dammit.
Larson was one of those boy geniuses that, unlike Marshall, acted more like a boy than a genius. Usually agents with that much sheer encyclopedic knowledge of foreign languages and customs (not to mention Krav Maga) were snapped up by the DC office, but Quint's wife was doing her postdoctorate research in the southwestern deserts and he'd refused to live on the other side of the country.
Quint himself was a college dropout. He was also prohibited from entering any Stanford campus after punching one of his professors in the face. Sydney occasionally wondered how so many people with authority issues came to work for an agency that basically ordered them around all the damn time.
"Man, now I need something sweet. D'you think they've got Jolly Ranchers around here somewhere?"
Then again, she also wondered whose bright idea it was to give this guy a gun.
Helsinki
Sark hated being cold—not just the chill he got when the thermostat was too low and he and Sydney started arguing over temperature settings, but the kind of cold one encountered when one came to Finland on a frosty February day and stood outdoors. It made his bones ache and his eyes burn. Sloane's last master plan had taken them to Mexico City. What, pray tell, was wrong with Mexico now?
He clenched his jaw and refused to cross his arms for warmth. Wasn't Arvin used to Los Angeles? Wasn't—
"Julian."
From the smooth turn to his left, one would never guess that Sark had been startled, or that his limbs were being frozen into stiffness. "Arvin," he returned coolly.
"It's good to see you again," said Sloane, a sentiment belied by the complete lack of warmth with which the two former allies regarded each other. Sark inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. They might have been responsible for hundreds of deaths between the two of them, but they were nothing if not polite.
"Cole was unclear about the details, but he seemed to believe that I could help—"
"Or at least help the Covenant keep an eye on me," Sloane interjected wryly. "They may require my services, but that doesn't mean I have their trust. Luckily I could use a partner as we move into the next stage of the operation. Time is of the essence; we should get to work as soon as possible."
"And what is it, exactly, that we'll be working on?" Careful scrutiny of Arvin's words, tone and body language had thus far revealed nothing.
"Now, Julian." He'd forgotten how much he despised that condescendingly paternal smile. "This isn't the place."
"Then might I suggest somewhere indoors?" said Sark, in perhaps a more biting tone than was necessary.
Sloane being what he was, he stood completely still and stared levelly at Sark. It was all mind games, as usual — they couldn't move forward without his say-so, and after all those years of playing the lamb at Omnifam Arvin had to be loving this. There was nothing to do but wait it out, which Sark did without the slightest reaction.
"Follow me," he finally said, and led Sark down the first side street of many, winding through the less-traveled areas of Helsinki.
Sark would have preferred to walk in silence, so he knew it was only a matter of time before Sloane spoke. Sure enough, they hadn't even made their second turn before he was apparently struck by a thought. "You know, Julian, this reminds me. About six months ago, Sydney paid me a visit."
"I suppose it is remarkable that she did so voluntarily," he replied flippantly when it was clear Arvin wanted a response. Deep in the pockets of his coat, his fists were carefully not clenching, but the effort required was immense.
"Really. Because what I think is remarkable is that Sydney had not yet been returned to the CIA. In fact . . . she was being held captive. By you."
"As she was ultimately serving the interests of the Covenant—and, by extension, myself—I had no objection to allowing a certain degree of free rein. We removed evidence of a particularly sloppy Covenant operation, and McKenas later informed me that we had his… 'double thumbs up from the get-go', I believe was the phrase. And might I remind you, it's me you have to thank for the retrieval of that hourglass."
"Oh, you've served us all quite well, to be sure," Sloane conceded, not thrown off stride in the least. "But I can't help wondering if there was something more."
"I'm not sure what you're referring to."
The older man shot him a sideways glance as they passed under a street lamp. "Sydney is a very beautiful woman."
It was interesting, what that simple comment did to him. Sark did not consider himself a jealous or possessive individual by any means, and it wasn't as if he could possibly be threatened by a man Sydney loathed perhaps more than anyone in the world. Nor could he claim indignation on behalf of all Sloane had done to hurt her, since he'd been involved in several of those killings himself— Francie Calfo, Diane Dixon. But still it was difficult to think past the urge to cut out Arvin's tongue on the spot and choke him with it. An irrational desire, and one that certainly could not be acted upon, but there it remained, hot and bitter in the back of his throat.
"Your powers of observation continually astound. I fail to see the relevance." It was harsher than he should have been, but it was the best he could do.
"Yes, I suppose you might," said Sloane, and surprisingly, his tone was amused. "At first I thought there might be some sort of illicit affair between the two of you, but it didn't take long to realize that that was absurd. After all, she has every reason to despise you. Sydney is one of the most stringently moral individuals I've ever encountered— knowing her parents as I do, I'm not sure where she gets it. But she would never stoop to the level of a man like you."
"Thank you," he replied, his tone completely blank, "for that compelling insight."
"Oh, don't take it personally, Julian. It's human nature to want things we can never have." Arvin was obviously enjoying himself immensely. "I know you've had your eye on her from the beginning, and she exploited that, didn't she. Manipulated you to get what she wanted. She's very good at it. Superb."
"As you say." Let Sloane believe the irritation in his voice was a sign he'd guessed correctly, that Sydney had seduced Sark just as far as she'd needed to in order to get him under her thumb. Like so many other men, so many other missions. As long as Arvin was content being far from the truth, their secret was safe.
Still practically glowing with superiority, Sloane stopped without warning. "Here we are."
The door was so easily camouflaged by the shadows and texture of the architecture around it (such as it was) that no one was likely to notice it unless they looked. Then again, even if they did notice, no would-be intruder would get past the lengthy passcode Arvin was currently punching into a hidden keypad. When the locking mechanism released, the two men slipped smoothly through the entrance and shut the door behind them.
The building smelled of dust and old rusting metal, and in the dim corridor they entered only the slightest hints of cologne and plastic signaled a recent human presence. From somewhere deeper within the forgotten structure, there was the faint, unmistakable hum of activity. The bulk of the operation would naturally take place further within, where no lights or noise would draw the attention of curious passersby.
It wasn't that much warmer indoors, but Sark could feel his skin flushing at the change in temperature nonetheless. He tugged off his scarf and turned to face Sloane. The time for pleasantries and posturing was over. "Perhaps it's time you gave me some idea of what it is you're doing," he suggested, trying not to sound testy.
"I'm looking for someone," replied Sloane, almost dismissively. From the moment they entered it seemed his attention had been caught by those indistinguishable sounds echoing gently through the halls; he turned back to the younger man as if Sark no longer mattered. "For now, that is all you need to know."
"You'll forgive the impertinence," Sark said, though he couldn't care less, "but I believe I'll need to know a great deal more if I'm to be of assistance."
"No. You won't." Sloane raised his chin slightly as he stared at the taller man. "You've been called in to help with preparations. The Passenger is none of your concern."
"The—"
"What I need you to do is oversee the procurement of certain materials," said Arvin, as if Sark had never opened his mouth. "There is a former Soviet laboratory in Novgorod with materials we'll need. Hire only operatives you know can be trusted, and keep me advised of any complications."
"And what sort of materials, if I might ask?"
"A chemical compound, in liquid form. It should be green."
He hadn't said it, but he had that gleam in his eye that only meant one thing, and Sark knew. Arvin would never change, no matter how many people he killed.
"It's Rambaldi, isn't it," he surmised. It was difficult to keep his expression neutral, though he almost managed. "Typical."
Sloane's eyes were a fairly deep brown, but their expression now was positively icy. "Listen to me, Julian. I understand that you have little respect for Rambaldi and his followers. The way you looked at Irina and I as we sought to construct Il Dire — did you think I never noticed? Now, you may have the luxury of writing off his works as the ramblings of a madman, but for me…" His jaw clenched. "For me, it is personal. Make the necessary preparations. And hold your tongue."
Before Sark could immediately disobey by saying something ill-advised and mocking, Sloane turned on his heel and walked away.
He soon disappeared into a door further down the corridor, leaving Sark to wonder who among his widespread underworld acquaintances could be relied upon to break into a Russian military lab with minimal fuss. Preferably someone who could assemble a reliable team on short notice . . .
When the idea arrived, a tiny smile tugged at his lips.
This might end up being an entertaining assignment after all.
Melbourne
"What do you mean I can't turn here?" Quint shouted at an innocent traffic sign. "Fuck you, you fucking—"
"Just pull over," said Sydney, trying to sound authoritative and soothing at the same time and probably failing at both. "Just pull over and park, okay, and we'll walk."
It was one thing to get yourself into car chases and drive like a lunatic, but somehow it was always more terrifying from the passenger seat. Which is what she told herself when Quint's abrupt swerve into a tiny-looking parallel parking spot made her flinch and squeeze her eyes tightly shut.
"Right," he said cheerfully as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "I'm all turned around, where are we supposed to be?"
Rather than answer, Sydney just got out of the car and began walking in the appropriate direction, trusting that he wouldn't be far behind. He was like a duckling that way. A very large, foul-mouthed duckling. Sure enough, she'd only made it a few yards before he fell into step beside her, grabbing her hand and swinging it energetically between them. "Isn't this beautiful, honey?"
"Gorgeous," she agreed, and managed to give him a sugary smile while conveying with her eyes that she just might kill him.
Larson just shrugged. "Gotta blend in," he murmured sotto voce. Then: "Oh, look, sweetie! Flinders Street Station!"
She dredged up some enthusiasm, because it wasn't his fault; they were supposed to be a couple of American tourists on their honeymoon. In a crowded city like this, the best way to blend in was to be as casual as possible, and while she didn't think that had to involve Quint bobbing his head to the techno music coming out of someone's car, she could live wth it. Anyone keeping an eye out for agents would probably look right past the 'fly moves of Q-Lar,' as he'd once described them. (She'd gagged.)
They turned right from Flinders Street itself, toward the café Lisenker had designated as their meeting spot. Even his specifications for the meet made him sound flighty— they were to sit out in the open, the announcement on their table, and if the man even suspected a double-cross he'd disappear and never contact them again. The operation was frustratingly open to failure, but they needed as much information on the Covenant as they could possibly get. Most of what Sark was told was still on a need-to-know basis, and between Senator Reed's constant appeals to the courts and her own stubbornness, Lauren had given them next to nothing.
Sydney's jaw tightened at the mere thought. Certainly she would be more than happy to see the bitch die, but that was almost beside the point compared to what Vaughn was going through. Rather than the swift death penalty verdict they'd expected, the process seemed likely to drag out for at least a year if Senator Reed could help it.
These days Vaughn walked through the Rotunda office like a ghost. They all worried, especially Weiss, but no one knew what to do. Sydney remembered the look in Vaughn's eyes when he found out, when he said he wanted nothing more than to kill his own wife. If he snapped—
"Stay with me, honey." As Quint's hand tightening around hers brought Sydney back to reality, she noticed her partner watching her with poorly concealed concern.
She flashed a broad, dimpled smile. "Sorry, love, just daydreaming."
"'Love'? he teased her with a look of relief. "What are you, a character in Sweeney Todd?"
My last two lovers have been British, what do you want from me? She tucked a few strands of blonde wig behind her ear. "Pretty much. You're lucky I'm not bursting into song right now. Or baking you into a pie."
"Oh, trust me, I am counting my blessings."
Rather than respond, Sydney looked across the street while they waited for the crosswalk to let them pass. "There," she said, pointing. "Third from the left. Oh, doesn't it look nice?" she gushed, wondering why she always seemed to dredge up a southern accent when she tried to be a silly blonde.
"Just like I always dreamed it would be," Quint deadpanned.
The outdoor sign near the entrance to Brunetti instructed them to seat themselves, so they chose a table in plain sight of anyone on the street and settled in with Quint seated on Sydney's right. "Thank god," he muttered. "I'm fucking starving."
"Watch your manners, dear," Sydney told him sweetly. In a more normal tone, she added, "You're a black hole. What about those sandwiches at the airport?"
"We had to get our connecting flight before I could finish them!"
"There were seven of them, La— darling. Seven. You—"
"Hi, how're you going?" a waitress chirruped on Sydney's left. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink?"
"Just coffee, please," she requested, glancing up and giving the girl a perfunctory smile.
"You have cake, right?" asked Quint, leaning forward eagerly.
"Yes, we've got—"
"Oh, just get me your favorite," he interrupted with a wink. Their waitress blushed a little and went back inside to get their orders.
Sydney turned to her partner and raised a stern eyebrow. "Remember how we're on our honeymoon?"
"I'm a terrible husband," he said, unrepentant.
"I'll say."
Quint's forehead creased with annoyance, which was rare. "Give me a break, okay. We've got to keep our eyes open, and a waitress who blushes over a tiny bit of flirting probably isn't going to put a bullet in our heads. Better safe than sorry."
"She was unarmed," Sydney shot back, just managing not to roll her eyes. "She had a cell phone and two spare pens in her pockets, and no wires. Just from the way she's walking I can tell she hasn't got a shoulder holster, and the clothes she's wearing would cling too much to have a gun or a knife strapped anywhere."
Her partner's eyebrows had climbed to an improbable height. "You are smart like a freak."
"I've been doing this for a long time."
"I'll say," Quint scoffed. "Old lady."
"Idiot," she replied idly, scanning the café's other patrons for suspicious activity.
"Lisenker. He's here." In the blink of an eye they were all professionalism, despite the fact that Larson still slouched carelessly in his chair and Sydney did nothing more than adjust her sunglasses. Of course, the glasses just so happened to be descendants of Marshall's 'super-swank' model, and they would not only make a positive ID but would ensure that Lisenker wasn't bugged— with or without his knowledge. Most importantly, they were still super swank.
She was too well-trained to turn around, so she didn't see Lisenker until he dropped into the seat next to her, eyeing the prearranged sign of sugar cubes she'd 'accidentally' spilled. He was middle-aged and unshaven, with that nervous look people often got when they could never be sure they weren't about to die.
"Hey there," said Quint. "Good to see you."
"I do not like this place," Lisenker told them anxiously, in lieu of a greeting. "It is too out in open."
Sydney couldn't quite place his accent, but that wasn't what she needed to be concerned with. After a few seconds the sunglasses' built-in screen that she had to practically cross her eyes to see had told her all she needed to know. This was their guy, and he was clean.
"Safer that way," she said, nodding almost imperceptibly to Larson. "Besides, you're the one who picked it."
"We'll get you out of here as soon as we can," Quint promised. "Cake?"
The waitress came up behind Lisenker, which naturally made him jump several inches in the air. "Sorry about that," the girl said easily, passing out Quint's very chocolatey-looking cake and Sydney's miraculously unspilled tea. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, please, I am fine."
By the time Sydney had assured him that they were really CIA agents, her partner was on his second piece of cake and her tea was getting cold. Lisenker veered from bouts of irrational nervousness to attempts to discuss the Covenant's plans in public, neither of which did much for Sydney's temper.
They only stayed long enough to make it look as if they'd really come for the food. Luckily for Lisenker's nerves, Quint dispatched the cake with his customary gusto, and before he could do anything deeply unprofessional like lick frosting from the plate, Sydney looked at her watch. "Oh gosh, the time!" she exclaimed a little more loudly than she had to. Her partner immediately laced his fingers together and looked at her like a guilty puppy. "We better go, or we'll be late."
"Right you are, sweetheart," Larson agreed quickly, running a hand over his mouth in lieu of a napkin.
It was a little like babysitting, being his partner, Sydney mused as she reached over to wipe off a bit of chocolate that had somehow landed near his eye.
When she made the mistake of reminding Quint to get Australian Doritos before they left, prompting him to throw his arms around her and then all but run to the airport's nearest food vendor, she changed her mind. It was, in fact, a lot like babysitting.
Lisenker finally calmed down when they were on the plane. He actually seemed to strike up a decent conversation with Quint about America and television and—unless she'd heard incorrectly—Gloria Estefan. Full of pep, or something like that. As long as the boys were going to behave, Sydney didn't particularly care. She was ready to leave them to their own devices, and all the traveling had her struggling to stay awake.
Sydney fell asleep in her seat and dreamed of Vaughn and fire and endless red desert, but when she woke up she didn't remember any of it.
Los Angeles
"Sydney. Come on in."
The warmth in Director Dixon's voice when he spoke to her was a reminder of when they'd been partners, and it made her smile. "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. I know you've just landed, but we're going to have to send you out again sooner than expected." He jotted down one final note in the file on his desk before closing the folder and giving her his full attention.
This time her smile was rueful. "No rest for the weary, I guess. Is this about the Covenant again?"
"Isn't it always. Sark contacted us while you were gone. He's been tasked by Sloane to oversee the retrieval of materials from an old Soviet bunker in Novgorod."
"So you're sending me in?"
"Well, it's not quite that simple," Dixon admitted. "You'll be joining a mercenary team; Sark seems to believe you'll have no trouble gaining their trust." At those words, which sounded suspiciously like a direct quote, he raised his eyebrows slightly at Sydney, and she just knew.
Oh.
Oh, of course he would.
She was going to kill Julian Sark, slowly and painfully.
"He's hiring Simon Walker," she said flatly, nodding her head to keep from breaking something. "Of course. So I take it I'm going in as Julia."
"That's the plan. Sydney, until we know more about what Sloane is planning we can't risk exposure. Find out whatever you can about what's going on, but don't try to cross Walker or any of the others. Not yet. It's still too dangerous. Now, go home and get whatever you need for the trip—"
Like a blunt object so I can beat Sark to a pulp?
"—and when you get back, we'll contact Walker and arrange for you to join the team. Wheels up as soon as possible."
Sydney nodded her assent and started for the door, only to stop halfway. There was something… off. She couldn't quite place it, and she'd been trying to ignore it, but after so many years in the field she had learned to trust her instincts. "It's pretty empty out there," she commented, turning halfway to study Dixon's face. "I didn't see Vaughn or Weiss. Or my father, for that matter."
"On other assignments," he replied, quick and smooth. "I don't have to tell you how busy this week has been."
"Right. I'll be back as soon as I can," she promised. There was no point in pressing further when she had a job to do.
But Dixon was lying, and she wanted to know why.
AN: All I want is for Syd and Sark to cuddle, and the stupid plot keeps getting in the way. Sigh. It was more fun when the plot involved them being together 24/7.
In other news, I have the best readers ever. And Rivalita now has over 30,000 hits? WHAT? I could not possibly love you guys any more. Your reviews encourage me and fill me with boundless joy. Like when Sark shows up in "Bob" with his American accent. That much joy. Be impressed with yourselves.