A/N: Hello again, readers, and welcome to the second chapter of Mister Sark. I hope the first one was agreeable enough, but this one gets it going a bit more. It is ambiguous, but that will serve to make the next chapter all the more interesting.
And I know I mentioned something about this story being Sarkney before, but...we shall see. I've been watching the fifth season again, and I now have other ideas.
Anyway, I don't own Alias. But I do wish they'd revive it. Hence this story.
Mister Sark
Chapter Two: Avoiding Familiarity
Humans are creatures of habit. Everything we say, everything we do, follows our own designs. Our daily commute follows a pattern, as does our manner of leaving our place of residence, as does our manner of making breakfast, getting dressed, showering, etc. We even follow a pattern when getting out of bed. Which side do we roll over on? How many times do we press the snooze button on the alarm clock. When does the smell of the coffeepot brewing a fresh pot in the too-distant kitchen finally give your senses the kick-start they need to begin the day? Familiarity is the backbone of daily life.
But as anyone involved in the espionage trade–such as myself–will tell you, if something feels familiar, it is wrong, and if something is wrong, it usually means you are dead. Not necessarily at the precise instant you feel that familiar twinge are you dead, but soon you will be. Death is inevitable.
And yet, there are those that have survived familiarity. They have been shot at, driven off cliffs, etc., and yet still they live to see yet another familiar circumstance.
I am one such person. And so, as my senses gradually fade back into focus from the black oblivion, I find myself in an unfortunately familiar circumstance.
It is unnecessary for me check my hands and feet for bindings; I know with certainty that I am cuffed, hands and feet, to a metal chair that is not likely to break under pressure. The cuffs are tighter than honestly necessary–I prefer to negotiate my way out of captivity, rather than escape by brute force, and as such making sure I cannot move is not altogether required. The skin on my hands is a shade paler than that of my arms, and I can just faintly feel my fingertips tingling beyond the iron vise of the cuff.
My accommodations, such as they are, are bathed in a blindingly white light, given off by the single bulb that no doubt swings over my head. Beyond the arc of light that lies a few feet in front of me, the rest of my surroundings are obscured by shadows, made all the more obscure by the light that poisoned my eyes.
It occurs to me that Viktor Korvachenko–who I can assume is responsible for my current situation– must still have friends, or at least paid accomplices, in the Russian police. Or perhaps his employers do. The latter is more likely.
Steel scrapes against concrete somewhere in the shadows.
I stare ahead stoically, waiting for the familiarity to ensue.
It begins almost immediately. A figure, dressed entirely in black, steps just into the field of vision afforded by the light. Tall and strong, his body speaks bodyguard, or thug. But his face says something entirely different. High cheekbones and a thin, hawkish nose scream educated nobility. The gray eyes behind the glasses study me with calculated interest, but also no small measure of respect.
Well, now here we are getting somewhere. This gentleman is obviously higher ranking than Korvachenko. His eyes betray a hardened core of experience and brutality, but also a perfectly rational intellect. He is the perfect type of interrogator.
The perfect type of acquaintance, if I do say so myself.
His figure disappears into the dark, then returns, dragging a steel table and a chair behind him. He sits them both in front of me. He sits in the chair properly, in a dignified manner. Yes, he is former nobility, but probably still hanging onto his title. Not for dear life, like some other deposed lords. No, he carries it out of respect for the old ways.
And for the money. Always for the money.
"Herr Sark," the man says with a scratchy voice. His German is smooth and clean, with just the barest hint of a Russian accent on the vowels. Probably educated in Germany. "Your reputation precedes you."
I smile. "But yours, I'm afraid, does not, sir. You are?"
He does not smell of nicotine, though he laughs like a smoker. Perhaps he quit?
"It is good that you are not familiar with me, Mr. Sark. I like to keep my anonymity."
"And yet you reveal your face to me."
He nods. "Indeed. That is because you will not be meeting me again."
This is either interesting or depressing, and I cannot decide which. It depends on your perspective. Since I am a pessimist by nature, I choose the latter, and frown.
"I see."
"No, you do not." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gleaming black pistol, a silencer, and a key. "Now, do you see?"
What I see does not make sense, but I nod slightly, being as ambiguous as I possibly can. It is usually best not to anger terrorist types, in my professional experience.
He jumps up from his chair, picks up the key, and rushes over to my side of the table. Then he kneels. Unlocks the cuffs that bind my hands and wrists. I try to stand, but he shoves me down in the chair. Then he rushes back to his chair and sits.
Blood rushes into my blocked off limbs. My hands go livid red and begin to shake. The tingly feeling returns in a full force as I rub my wrists in a vain effort to tame it.
"Now then, Herr Sark. I will give you your assignment."
I make no reply, in word or gesture.
His hands delve once again into his jacket pocket–this time behind the lapel, and return with a manila folder, unmarked. It slides across the steel table and lands in my lap.
I open it. Three pictures fall out.
"Find her. Bring her and the other two to my employer."
I look up from the pictures. "Who will be my contact? You?"
He laughs dryly. "No, no, Herr Sark. Not me. But someone. We will contact you on the cell phone you will find in your jacket pocket."
I look over my shoulder. "I don't see my jacket."
"It will be given to you as you leave. As will your other possessions."
I put the pictures back in the envelope. "What is my payment?"
His eyes widen. Incredulence smirks across his face. "Why, your life is all the payment you need, no?"
It is my turn to laugh. The pistol finds its way into my right hand. A black, unblinking eye stares at the person across the desk from me. "I could kill you, right now. Is that what you wish?"
"Yes."
Despite my extensive training in compartmentalizing my emotions, I could not help but show shock on my face. This man wished to be killed.
Suddenly the earlier conversation made sense.
"I know you have no qualms about killing, Herr Sark, so I will not patronize you by saying I deserve to die. It is enough that you–"
The shot resounds in the cavernous room. In the midst of the echo the body falls to the ground, the ring of the steel chair against the concrete floor creates an odd dissonance.
The light above me clicks off. I am left in darkness.
Mexico city, Mexico
1200 hours
The black van they shoved me into after I shot the man behind the desk stops so abruptly my head is thrown into whatever was sitting in front of me.
It was hard. I have a splitting headache.
I hear the door slide open. Two rough hands grasp my shoulders, and, in an inexorably familiar scene, I am thrown from the van as the door closes and it speeds off.
I open my eyes and cough. They must've pulled off the hood as they threw me out, because I am standing in the bright daylight.
In a busy market, full of clucking chickens and fly-shadowed meat.
Surrounded by fitful bursts of what I believe is Spanish.
I stand up and wipe the dust off my shirt.
Welcome to Mexico City.
I walk down the street and find myself on one of the main thoroughfares of the city. Close enough, at least, that taxis vertiably swarm me as I raise my hand on the sidewalk. I open the door and step into the first one that pulls up.
"Where to, Señor?" the taxista asks eagerly.
"The airport," I mutter. I reach into my pockets and feel the wad of American dollars stuffed there. Two hundred thousand, they said.
I pull the cell phone out of my jacket pocket and dial a long distance number, knowing without a doubt that the number is untraceable.
"Hello. Welcome to the Hotel Nikolai. May I help you?"
"Yes, you can. Tell me, has a Mister Sark's luggage been sent up to his suite?"
"A moment...Yes, sir. It waits for Mr. Sark in his suite." A pause. "Is this Mr. Sark?"
"No, no, this is his personal assistant, Mr. Curry. It turns out that Mr. Sark's schedule has pulled him away from Moscow earlier than expected. Would it be too much trouble to forward his luggage to his next destination?"
"No, Mr. Curry. No trouble at all. Where should I send it?"
"Los Angeles."
"Very well. It's on the next flight there."
"Thank you, Madam."
"Good day, Mr. Curry."
Click.
A/N (reprise): Hmm, interesting...now just why would Sark be going to Los Angeles??? Stay tuned! I have a bit of Chapter Three written, and it may surprise you...