A note about last chapter too: there was one point at Danny's funeral where Sydney was thinking about a guy named Waller and how he was going to pay for what happened to Danny. That should have been Sloane. I changed it, but for those of you that already read the chapter, I thought I'd let you know. And when Vaughn's talking about Laura, that should be Lauren.

Enjoy!

St. Petersburg, Russia

23:30

THE NIGHT AIR WAS COLD; so cold that the locals were even admitting to themselves that the temperature was abnormally low for October. The streets were quiet; the only sound that could be heard—other than that of the occasional passing car—were the pounding bass beats from a nearby club. None of the residents seemed to mind, however, in fact they were all used to the noise; the club was extremely popular.

The girl, like everyone else, seemed unperturbed by the thundering bass coming from down the road. She stood casually outside the apartment building, hands in the pockets of her coat. After a few moments, she went in and examined the mailboxes in the lobby. A small smile curved around her lips as her eyes came to rest on one name in particular: M. PETROVKA, 3B. After all these years, Katya still couldn't register property under her own name. Maybe it was because she'd spent so many years working for the SVR, or perhaps it was simply because she understood the significance and risk of being a Derevko.

Slowly, the girl crossed the lobby. Any passerby looking at her would simply think that she was a resident of the apartment building, perhaps Marina's niece, or the teenage daughter of the divorced lawyer in 4C. She was petite and very slim; she looked like she could hardly be older than sixteen or seventeen. Her hair was pulled back into a bun and in the light it looked as black as ink. Combined with her olive complexion and deep, brown eyes, she looked very European, Russian or Greek, perhaps. With her black coat and equally black sweatpants, she seemed to disappear in the dim light of the lobby. If anyone could be a human chameleon, it was she.

The girl, in fact, was a human chameleon. Her name was Nadia Santos, and at nineteen-almost-twenty, she was one of the most successful spies in the freelance world, her biggest, and only rival, being the fearsome Julia Thorne. Raised outside of Buenos Aires, she spoke Spanish as well as she spoke Russian. Having been in the freelance business since she was sixteen, Nadia had learned the importance of being able to disappear. While Julia had a reputation for being extremely skilled and speedy, Nadia greatest strength was her ability to disappear.

Apartment 3B was the same as all the others: a plain, wooden door with a letter and number affixed to it. Nadia raised her fist, but hesitated for a second before knocking. She hadn't seen her aunt Katya in a few years, and she didn't really know what to expect. She wasn't even sure if Katya would be able to offer her any help; perhaps this situation had gone too far for the SVR to be able to help. Still, she hoped there was something that her aunt could do. If not, she didn't think there was anywhere else she could go.

It was a moment before the door opened, revealing Nadia's formidable aunt, Lieutenant Katya Derevko. She hadn't changed at all since the last time Nadia had seen her. Tall and thin, with short, dark hair and piercing blue eyes and a pale complexion, Katya looked very intimidating. The fact that she carried herself ramrod straight and had a permanently haughty look affixed to her face only made her look more intimidating. However, when she saw her niece, she smiled, and that fearsome expression was lost for a moment, making her almost look human.

"Ah! Nadia!" She held the door open wide. "Come in."

Katya's apartment was dimly lit and sparsely furnished. The lieutenant spent very little time here, so she had seen no need for any extra touches. Nadia took a seat on the sofa, and stared into the depths of the fireplace. Her aunt took a seat in the armchair across the room.

"Something tells me this isn't simply a pleasure visit," Katya said cautiously, after a few moments of silence.

Nadia shook her head. "They're on to me, Katya. I need somewhere to hide, somewhere where they won't be able to find me or hurt me. I know they're after me because of my mother, and because of that stupid prophecy, but I'm not going to let them catch me. Not after what they did to me the last time. That's why I came. I thought maybe, the government could give me some protection. Maybe there is someplace I can hide? I'm a Russian citizen, after all."

Katya sighed. "There is nothing I would love more than to offer you some protection from the horrors you may suffer at their hands, darling. I know that your mother wanted you to be hidden from this for as long as possible, but The Covenant's reach extends far deeper than it would seem. I am sure there are people who could be easily swayed—if they have not been already—to provide information about your whereabouts, especially if the SVR is the organisation offering you protection. You cannot stay here, my child. This is where they will expect you to come. You must go to Irina; they do not know you grew up with her. They do not know where she is. And then you must go to America."

"America?" Nadia was perplexed. "What's in America?"

"Nadia," Katya began kindly. "I hoped to be able to tell you this sooner."

"Tell me what?"

"Before your mother gave birth to you, she was married to an American. He lives in Los Angeles."

"Is that why I have to go to America?" Nadia wondered why, if her mother had been married, that she had left in the first place.

"No." Katya paused. "You need to see your sister."

USAF C-17

Somewhere over the Atlantic

22:45

Sydney Bristow was tired. As an agent of the CIA, she was trained to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime. Sleep was a luxury in this business; they trained you to take what you could get. Despite this, Sydney couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she was haunted by nightmares; the images she saw left her chilled to the bone, making sleep impossible. She knew she should get some rest so she could be fully alert in Paris—it was a test, after all—but she knew that no matter how hard she tried, a peaceful sleep was not going to come. She'd just have to push through the exhaustion once she got to Paris.

Not only did she have to worry about the effects that a lack of sleep could have on her performance in Paris tomorrow, but she had a pile of schoolwork awaiting her when she got home, in addition to her debrief. Sydney had a paper due for her history class tomorrow, but, having cleared it with the professor beforehand, she had until midnight to hand it in, since she wasn't going to be in class. She got the feeling her professor was getting a little irritated with her insistence on working a full-time job in addition to trying to finish grad school, especially given the nature of their last conversation.

Sydney had to admit she had been less than attentive in class since Danny had died, to the point that her professor had approached her after class Wednesday…

"Sydney, would you mind staying a moment?"

Sydney glanced up from her bag in surprise. Professor McGillivray only ever asked people to stay after class when they were in trouble. The few people still trickling out of the classroom glanced at her, wondering what kind of trouble she could be in. Sydney had a reputation for being a quiet, attentive student, devoted to her work and her studies. She was the last person anyone in the class would expect to be in trouble.

Cautiously, Sydney approached the professor's desk at the front of the room, avoiding the stares of her fellow classmates, who—with one glare from McGillivray—scuttled out of the room.

"Are you all right, Sydney? You seem to have been a little distracted the last few weeks."

Sydney blinked, surprised. McGillivray was keeping her after class to ask her if she was all right? "Uh, I'm a little tired, Professor, that's all."

"Well I know that you work very hard at that bank, Sydney, and that you work very hard in school as well, it just seems that…well it seems as if you aren't putting as much effort into your work as you used to. Now I know you were very adamant about finishing your second degree, and I know that you are very passionate about history, but I also know that you take your job very seriously. I've just been thinking, you can always come back to school, Sydney. If your work at the bank is taking up too much of your time, then perhaps you should reconsider taking another degree right now. You–"

"I'm not working for the bank anymore," Sydney interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

Sydney took a breath, realizing she had just interrupted her professor. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Professor, but after…" Here she had to stop for a moment to compose herself before continuing. "I quit my job at the bank over a month ago. I'm now working for a travel magazine; I had a weekly article about the historical value of popular travel sites. The schedule is a little bit more lenient than the one I had working at the bank, and I thought, since I'm doing a major in History, it would be a more useful job to take."

Now it was McGillivray's turn to be surprised. "Oh. Well that's better, Sydney, but are you sure you can handle it? You don't look like you've slept much lately."

Sydney sighed. "It's true I haven't been getting as much sleep as I should, but it has nothing to do with work. My…my boyfriend died a month ago in a car accident—well we were both involved in the accident—and, well, it's been a bit of a rough time since."

"Sydney, I had no idea." McGillivray's face filled with sadness. "I'm sorry."

Sydney smiled patiently. "I've wanted to be a History teacher since my mother died, professor. This is my last year in the program, and I have no intention of giving up now. Especially after what happened to my boyfriend. He knew how important school was to me, and he always encouraged me not to give it up. Besides, the job at the magazine is just temporary. I have no intention of sticking with it long-term."

"Well that's good. I'm sure you're boyfriend would be very proud of you."

Sydney smiled absent-mindedly. "Yes. He is."

McGillivray raised her eyebrows. "Is? Don't you mean was? I thought you said he passed away."

Sydney's cheeks flamed as she realized that, this whole time, she had been thinking of Vaughn when she said boyfriend, and not Danny. "Yes, he did. That's what I meant."

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Well, if that'll be everything, Professor, I've got to go. My plane leaves in a few hours, and I've still got to pack."

"Plane?" McGillivray asked sceptically.

"I'm going to Paris with the magazine. It's all historical though, Professor, I swear!" she added hastily, seeing the look on her professor's face.

"I suppose that means you'll be wanting an extension on the paper due tomorrow?"

"I'll have it in by midnight tomorrow, I promise," Sydney said, before grabbing her bag, and hurrying out of the room. "Shit," she mumbled as she made her way down the corridor; she'd just remembered that even though her cover story was indeed working at a travel magazine, she had told Will she worked for an insurance brokerage. These kinds of slip-ups couldn't happen anymore, especially if Will did some checking up on her…

The rumbling of the jet engine seemed so soothing; it was trying to lull Sydney to sleep, even though she dreaded what she would see as soon as her closed. If she only closed them for a second, however, maybe a compromise could be reached with her subconscious. As soon as things got ugly, she could always wake up…

The room was dark, but even without the light, Sydney knew exactly where she was. How could she forget, when she'd lived there at least three years? There was the old coffee table, and the fireplace, and the old coasters she'd brought from her grandparents in Cape Cod. This was the apartment where she'd lived with Vaughn, before they separated.

He came in then, smiling, a towel wrapped around his waist. He was fresh out of the shower, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders, smelling the way she loved: of shampoo and cheap, lemon-scented drugstore soap. As he wrapped his arms around her, she remembered what it was like to feel whole, to feel happy and safe. It was like The Covenant had never happened, like nothing had ever happened between them.

Suddenly, Vaughn staggered. Before Sydney could do anything, he stumbled and fell, a red puddle blossoming out from under his chest. His eyes began to glaze over, and as Sydney watched helplessly, the life faded from his eyes.

"That's what you get for leaving," a voice hissed.

Sydney raised her head numbly to see Lauren Reed, smirking. In her hand, she held a Glock, fitted with a silencer. Her long, blond hair tumbled wildly around her face.

"How many more will there have to be, Sydney?" she asked mockingly.

Before Sydney could respond, the scene changed, and she found herself staring at a headstone: IN LOVING MEMORY OF MICHAEL CHARLES VAUGHN, 1971-2001. And written underneath it: SON, BROTHER, FRIEND.

At first, all Sydney could do was stare. It was like all her worst nightmares were coming true right before her eyes. She could feel the tears starting to burn behind her eyes.

"I get it now."

Sydney whirled around. Danny was standing there, his face full of hurt and betrayal. "Danny?" she whispered, disbelieving.

"When were you going to tell me that you were still in love with him? That is, if you were ever going to tell me at all." His voice was bitter. "Why couldn't I have been enough for you, Syd? Why couldn't I have made you happy? Did you even try to be happy?" Danny shook his head in disgust. "He's not worth your time. You deserve way better than him. He left you, remember, without even saying goodbye?" Here his face shifted and filled with a bitter hatred. "I never left you. I never would have even dreamed of it. The thought of you, the way you were after he left, it makes me sick. It makes me sick that someone could do that to you, and not even care. The fact that he thinks he can just waltz back into your life like nothing happened, and have you fall for him all over again is disgusting. He's disgusting. I thought you had better taste, Sydney. I thought you said you were done with people like him."

Sydney could feel the tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. Everything was coming apart, all the secrets she had tried so carefully to conceal were coming out into the open. She wanted to make Danny understand that it was all some huge misunderstanding. She wanted to be able to tell him the truth, the whole truth: what she did for a living, the real circumstances behind Vaughn's disappearance, anything to wipe that look off his face. She opened her mouth to say something, her lips beginning to form his name, but he beat her to it.

"I trusted you, Syd. And look where that got me."

Then he turned and began to walk away.

"Danny, he's not who you think he is! Please, let me explain!" Sydney called after him, but he kept going until he was out of sight.

Vaughn awoke to the sound of sobbing.

At first, he didn't know where he was. He couldn't place the rumbling noise; it made him feel disoriented. As he looked around and took in the interior of the private jet, he remembered everything. They were on route to Paris, to meet Vladimir Leibovski. He'd fallen asleep—after an hour of sitting in awkward silence with Sydney, as she pretended to read the mission specs for the umpteenth time—only to be woken hours later by a jolting sensation from what Weiss called his Syd Radar, telling him something was wrong.

She was across from him, still sleeping. She looked so tiny, curled up in the seat, more vulnerable than Vaughn had seen her in a long time. It was heartbreaking to watch the tears dripping down her face, to listen to her begging and pleading with an invisible tormentor. For a second, he could only watch; seeing Sydney like this was so foreign, that he had no idea what to do, in fact, he almost forgot it was Sydney.

She said his name then; a faint whisper, filled with despair and agony. Vaughn didn't want to listen anymore. He took hold of her shoulder, gently, but firmly. "Syd," he called softly. "Come back to me, Syd."

She seemed to struggle with opening her eyes, but as soon as she did, she looked confused, almost hopeful. "Vaughn?"

"I'm right here, Sydney."

"You're not dead?" She almost seemed afraid to ask.

"It was just a dream," Vaughn soothed, brushing aside his momentary confusion. "I'm fine."

"Danny was there," Sydney whispered. "At your grave." Now Vaughn understood who the invisible tormentor had been. "When he looked at me…there was so much guilt in his eyes. It was like he knew the whole time that I never loved him enough."

Vaughn's heart skipped a beat. Ws she saying what he thought she was saying? "Syd—" he began.

"What if they come after you too?" She turned to face him, more serious now, despite the tears on her face. "In my dream, Lauren killed you. She told me that was what I got for leaving The Covenant. That this was only the beginning." Vaughn froze at the sound of Lauren's name being uttered from Sydney's lips, and wondering exactly how much about her Sydney knew, but Sydney continued before he could ask. "Vaughn, what if she's right? What if they come after everyone?"

"They won't, Sydney." Vaughn resisted the urge to pull her against him; instead, he took both of her hands in his. "The first time, they were after you. Danny just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The only one in any real danger is you. These dreams are just a result of everything that's happened. They'll go away, Syd. You just have to give it some time."

She pulled her hands away from him, becoming more insistent. "Yes, but what if you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time too? I'm not going to let you end up like Danny. I've already lost you once. I'm not going to lose you again."

"Well then what are you suggesting?" As touched, as he was that Sydney didn't want to lose him again, he wasn't going to let her go on some suicide mission. "You're not thinking about going back to The Covenant, are you?"

Sydney shook her head. "I couldn't. Not after what happened, but I'm thinking that I should do this alone. If The Covenant's still after me, Leibovski will be under surveillance. He's a valuable source, because he has useful connections. Besides, if they find out that you're tied to me, they'll come after you, given our history. They may try and use you as a way to get to me. I'm not going to let that happen, Vaughn."

"Then let me come with you! You know how suspicious it would look if you went in alone. I trust you, Syd, but Kendall's not going to believe you. He'll think you're trying to double cross us, and since I've been ordered to maintain surveillance of you at all times, I'd take a bullet for not doing my job." He paused and looked at her, feeling the magnetism of those deep, brown eyes, before continuing. "Besides, do you think for one second that I am going to let you go in there alone?"

Sydney smiled thinly, seemingly distracted. Then her smile faded. "So what are we going to do?"

Vaughn sighed. "That's just it. I don't know. I don't deal with these people. You do. This is you turf, not mine, but I am sure as hell not letting you go in there alone. Especially if The Covenant is watching him, which is highly likely, given the nature of the information he could divulge to us."

Sydney frowned slightly, thinking. Vaughn could practically hear the gears in her brain working. "You're going to need an alias," she said after a moment, her tone suddenly business-like and brisk. "Papers, a new look; Leibovski's very thorough with checking up on new people. He and I go way back, so he trusts me—if you can call what we have trust—but that doesn't mean he'll forego all protocol when I bring a friend." She grabbed the mission specs folder and glanced over it. "They've given you a name, but the history probably doesn't run deep enough. If you're going to be up there with me, you've got to be on Interpol. Which I don't think you are. We'll—"

"Hang on a second," Vaughn interrupted. "You're on Interpol?" He couldn't believe that the Sydney he knew—his Sydney—could be wanted by Interpol. Even though she'd spent two of the last four years working for a major terrorist organisation, he hadn't thought she'd done anything that bad.

Sydney cast him a withering look. "Yes. I'm an active CIA agent on Interpol. Julia Thorne is wanted on Interpol, not me! Though Julia Thorne and I are one and the same—but most people don't know that, and I'd like to keep it that way." she added, like they were back in grade school and she was sharing with him her most important secret.

"So, as I was saying, we'll have to get you up on Interpol. That shouldn't be too hard, I know some people who should be able to get you in." Vaughn knew of one person who would definitely be able to get him onto Interpol. Sydney knew him too, but wasn't allowed to know yet that he was now in the employ of the CIA.

"If I'm going to be on Interpol, we're going to have to change our story." Vaughn took the mission specs folder from Sydney, her brisk, business-like manner rubbing off on him. "It says that I'm a businessman interested in underground trading, and I want a munitions supplier. You're supposed to be my go-between, the one who mentioned Leibovski in the first place and knows all the right contact protocols. If I'm on Interpol, that story is not going to work. And you're right, there isn't much padding to it."

"Well, a businessman could easily be on Interpol," Sydney countered with a wicked grin. "I've known a few." Vaughn didn't like the way she used the word known. "But you're right, it won't work for this scenario."

They were interrupted by an intercom broadcast from the co-pilot. "We're approaching Paris now. ETA forty-five minutes to an hour."

Vaughn and Sydney exchanged looks. "We'd better get that story straight."

Sydney smiled. "I've already got that one figured out. You're going to be my associate."

Vaughn frowned. "In your debrief, you said that Sark was you associate when you dealt with Leibovski. Julia has a reputation for being very picky with whom she works with. You can't use me as your associate; Leibovski will know something's up."

Sydney shook her head. "I thought about that too, but then I remembered that Leibovski and Sark never actually met. I forgot to mention it in my debrief, but they spoke over the phone and Sark knows what Leibovski looks like, but they've never met. If you can talk like Julian and make a visual ID on Leibovski, you'll be fine. We just need to tweak Sark's profile, which will actually be easier than creating a new one. All that has to be done is upload a picture of you in your disguise."

Vaughn nodded. "Looks like I'd better get on the phone then."

APO Headquarters

Los Angeles

10:00

It had been almost a month and a half since Marshall Flinkman had joined APO, and yet, he was still unpacking. There were a number of reasons why this was still the case: 1) He was still adjusting to the new setting and getting a feel for the office—which was much bigger than the one he'd had with SD-6, 2) He had a bunch of gadgets still in storage, which he'd been too lazy to get, and 3) He'd been doing quite a bit of work getting systems up and running for APO's servers. Marshall's work centre was always a disaster, but usually, everything was there.

Marshall was busy trying to take inventory of what he needed to retrieve from storage when his desktop phone rang. Marshall was perplexed: usually, if someone wanted to phone him, they called his cell. In fact, his desk phone was used so infrequently, Marshall had actually forgotten that he had on.

Realizing the only people who ever used his landline were Jack Bristow, Director Kendall, and other official people (Langley and such), and therefore meaning that this call was more likely than not of great importance, Marshall snatched it up and tried his best to sound calm, collected, and professional. "Flinkman here."

"Marshall, it's Vaughn."

Marshall blinked, surprised. "Hi, Vaughn. Hang on one second, I'm going to transfer you to my headset." He reached for his earpiece and clipped it in, making sure the connection was established before hanging up the landline.

"Is this line secure?"

"Uh, yeah," Marshall said uncertainly. "I'm just wondering why you would be asking that, because, I mean, aren't you supposed to be on a mission with Sydney, who isn't supposed to know about APO right now and so-"

"Listen, Marshall, I don't have time for this." Vaughn interrupted impatiently. "There's been a change in plans. Leibovski's got certain protocols involving guests. Apparently, he does some pretty thorough background checking, and he'll know something's up if the history doesn't run deep enough. Since Syd's supposed to be very picky with associates, I'm going in as her known companion, Matthew Englis. It's one of Sark's aliases, so you'll have to do some tweaking, but the bulk of it's there."

Marshall took a moment to digest this. "Okay, I mean, that's great and all, but, uh, what exactly do you want me to do?"

"I'll need my photo uploaded onto Englis' Interpol profile. I'll send you a picture of what I'm going to look like. Can you do that without the change being detected?"

Marshall snorted. "Can you tie your shoes? I hacked into the Pentagon undetected when I was in college. This is nothing."

There was a pause, in which Marshall could have sworn—had he been able to see—that Vaughn was smiling. "How long?"

"After you send me the photo? I'd say about two minutes, max."

"Good. Thanks, Marshall."

"Hey, no problem. It's more fun than the stuff I'm doing down here. And, uh, I was just wondering: have you told Sydney about this, because, I mean, she's not supposed to know about APO. Not that I'm complaining if you've told her, it's just, well, Mr. Bristow will be really upset if she's found out."

"I haven't told her, Marshall. I think she assumes that you're some old contact of mine. She's in the bathroom right now."

Marshall smiled, relieved. "Oh, well good."

"I'll send you the picture when it get it, Marshall." Vaughn hung up.

"Okay. Great. Bye," he mumbled, trying not to feel underappreciated. "I'm sure Vaughn had other things to do. Or maybe Sydney came out of the bathroom," Marshall told himself. "That must have been what happened."

Forty-five minutes later, Marshall still hadn't received anything. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if Vaughn was going to send him anything at all. Just then, his computer pinged. Opening his inbox, Marshall saw that he had one new message:

To: Marshall Flinkman

From: Michael Vaughn

Subject: Your pictures

Mr. Flinkman,

Here are the pictures I wanted you to use for the new webpage you're designing for the company. Even though you don't work for us, the work you've been doing is greatly appreciated. We really liked the WorldMag webpage. Who knows, maybe we'll convince you to come work with us instead.

Sincerely,

Michael Vaughn, Broker

Steinman and Sons Insurance

Los Angeles, California

Marshall resisted the urge to laugh to himself. He knew that all messages had to be encoded, and they had to seem like the kind of messages that would be sent from an insurance broker to a artistic designer at a tourism magazine, but it still was a little ridiculous to read what Vaughn had written, and how preposterously professional it sounded. And the fact that Vaughn had added the bit about Marshall coming to work with him someday, well that was just hilarious!

Marshall hastily downloaded the photo attached to the email, displaying Vaughn in a dark leather jacket with a dark, almost goading expression on his face. Trying to ignore the fact that the picture was severely intimidating, Marshall opened Matthew Englis' Interpol profile, and began uploading the picture of Vaughn in its place.

"Marshall?"

He jumped guiltily to see Jack Bristow standing silhouetted in the doorway.

"Oh, uh, hey Mr Bristow," Marshall said hastily, attempting to scoot his chair over to block the computer screen, where the Interpol profile—which now displayed Vaughn's picture—was clearly visible, so quickly that he sent the paraphernalia cluttering his desk flying in all directions. "I was just, uh, finishing some…last minute organization?" He finished hopefully, praying that Jack wasn't going to see through his painfully obvious attempt to cover up what he was really doing. It was highly unlikely that the older man would believe Marshall, after all, not only was he a terrible liar, but Jack was also incredibly good at figuring out when people were lying and when they were actually telling the truth. It took someone truly skilled in deception to be able to fool Jack, since he was such a master of deception himself. Marshall couldn't even lie to strangers, let alone someone as truly intimidating as Sydney's dad.

Fortunately, Jack didn't seem to be interested in the menial antics of Marshall Flinkman. If he had heard anything that Marshall had said, he gave no indication, nor did he ask to see what it was that Marshall was so obviously trying to hide behind him. "Are the system updates finished?" he asked brusquely, making it clear that he wanted nothing more than to get out of this office as quickly as possible.

Marshall nodded, relieved. "They'll be finished within the hour, Mr Bristow, sir."

"Good," said Jack, before turning and striding out of the office.