VIII
"Hey, Syd." Marshall beamed at her as she joined him in his car, still in the CIA parking lot. His attempt at a cloak-and-dagger routine was not terribly stealthy, but it was quite endearing, and frankly Marshall's greatest defence was the fact that it would never occur to anyone to suspect him of deviousness. He had all of the skills to outwit the CIA's best technology, and none of the inclination.
She had to lift a burned CD off the seat before she sat down, and raised her eyebrows as she saw the inked label. She turned it to face him. "Joni Mitchell?" she said with a small smile.
"Oh!" Marshall jumped. "That's not- well, it is mine, obviously, I'm sure you recognise the handwriting, but it isn't, um, I burned it for- someone."
Sydney's smile widened. "Someone?" she said pointedly.
Predictably, he cracked. "It's for Miss Bowman - well, Carrie - well, Carrie Bowman; she told me she likes Joni Mitchell. Although it makes her cry. Obviously I don't want to make her cry, but..."
"I'm sure she'd appreciate the gesture the way it's meant," Sydney said, grinning as she placed the name: one of the Special Projects people that Kendall had brought in on the Rambaldi task force.
"We had sushi," Marshall said, looking self-satisfied.
"Sushi, huh?" Sydney bumped his shoulder encouragingly. Although that did remind her of her own Friday night engagement. "Actually, I have a date tonight, so..."
"Oh! Right. Yes. Of course." He scrambled to open his laptop. "I was able to acquire the Project Christmas files."
"Really? Way to go, Marshall," she said, leaning over to look at the screen. She'd assumed after the last dead end that they were beyond recovery, but she should have known that Marshall could come up with the goods.
"It's pretty fascinating stuff, actually," Marshall said. "It was a study into ways of identifying and training naturally gifted agents - uncovering gifts, Christmas, you see?" He saw her polite smile wasn't going to open up into hilarity and moved on. "Anyway, the study identified the fact that the skills required for good intelligence agents - numerical memory, spatial awareness, creative problem solving - are all in evidence in children as young as five, and also that the optimum age for acquiring new skills is under seven years old, and... well, you can see where this is going."
"My father was training little kids as spies?" Sydney said, appalled.
"There's nothing in the files to suggest that the project was ever fully implemented," Marshall said. "It's a, a feasibility study, putting together the most effective training program possible in terms of time vs. results." He clicked through scanned pages. "The paperwork discusses teaching marksmanship, weapon assembly, differentiation between types of gunfire..." He twitched a nervous smile at her dark expression and hurried on. "But, er, the only tests that were recorded as being performed with actual six-year-olds were basic memory and problem-solving exercises, like, er, this puzzle."
He showed her a 3D model of a set of interlocking blocks. Sydney frowned at it, the solution coming to her as quickly as if... "I know this puzzle," she said slowly.
"Oh, yeah, me too." Marshall sat back and grinned. "I mean, it took me a couple of minutes to work it out the first time, but once you've seen it you can't unsee it, you know?"
"No," she said. "I'm not just solving it, I know it." She stared at him. "I've seen this puzzle somewhere before."
Jack paused the footage from his hidden camera in the records department, and grimaced at the unmistakable form he saw frozen there. Marshall Flinkman.
No doubt the CIA's internal cameras and the access records for the door had all been expertly wiped. His own camera would have been too, if Marshall had known it was there. Jack had decided, knowing his daughter was on the case, that a little additional security would probably be advised.
It had clearly been a wise move.
He didn't intend to waste time castigating Marshall; loyalty to his daughter was always a commendable impulse, it just happened to be in this case a highly inconvenient one. While there was nothing in those files that would tell Sydney she'd had the training, the details of the procedures might still spark something in her memory. And Jack knew that she wouldn't understand.
It had been the only thing he could think to do, the only way he'd had to protect her. He'd had no idea who he could trust, if he could still trust anybody after the way Laura had fooled him, and the FBI's net had been closing in like a noose. If they didn't believe he was innocent - and why should they? Nobody could be that stupid, a field agent could never be that stupid - he could have been jailed for years, even executed as a traitor. And Sydney would have been completely alone.
He'd been panicking about her future when she'd found the indicator test in his things. He'd brought some of the work home with him - idiot - believing that puzzles and memory exercises were harmless, meaningless to anyone, and forgotten all about it in the shock of the revelations about Laura. Sydney had solved the block puzzle effortlessly, without even needing to be told what it should look like. She'd just visualised it in her head - perfect agent material.
He'd seen it then, a solution, a lifeline. A way to guarantee that even if she were completely alone, Sydney would always be protected. Safe.
But he knew Sydney would be horrified by his method of keeping her that way, and unlikely to appreciate his reasons. He needed to find out exactly how much she'd learned and do damage control.
"Where's Sydney?" he asked brusquely as he entered the bullpen to find only Dixon and Weiss still at work. Weiss jumped, but Dixon just raised his head to look up at Jack.
"She said she was going to dinner at her friend Francie's restaurant," he said. "Vaughn's with her."
Jack nodded curtly and walked out.
The restaurant was not an ideal location for a confrontation, but perhaps it would work to his advantage. In front of her friends, Sydney couldn't afford to make too much of a scene. He could say his piece and go without her storming out on him, and she would be forced to sit and reflect on it through the meal instead of just going with her first hotheaded response.
He held little hope that would make her reaction to his words any better... but then, little hope was all he'd had in his relationship with Sydney for some time.
"It doesn't make sense," Sydney said, her frustrated gestures getting in the way of putting her earrings in. "According to Marshall, the Project Christmas techniques were never put into practise, but I know I've handled that block puzzle before."
"You think your mother could have given you the training?" Vaughn said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He'd been ready for some time now, but apparently, Sydney's ability to get changed into a mission outfit in fifteen seconds flat did not extend to getting dressed for dinner with friends.
"But why would she bring it up now?" Sydney demanded, turning to face him. "What, does she think we're going to bond over the fact that she brainwashed me into becoming a spy at the age where I was still convinced I was going to grow up to be a ballerina?"
"You wanted to be a ballerina?" Vaughn asked, cocking his head and grinning at the mental image.
"Or an astronaut," she said, smiling herself. "I was going to do it part time: space during the week, dancing at weekends." She frowned at her reflection in the mirror and then shook her head. "It doesn't benefit Mom anything to reveal this information now." She went still. "Unless... it wasn't her that gave me the Project Christmas training." She turned to stare at him.
It took Vaughn a moment to get it, and when he did, he boggled. "You think... your dad...?" He sat back, shaking his head. "He wouldn't."
They exchanged looks, and came to the same conclusion at the same time. "Of course he would," Sydney said grimly.
If he'd thought he was giving his daughter an edge... was there anything Jack Bristow wouldn't do?
Sydney abandoned the earrings and headed for the door. "I'm going to ask him. I want to hear him try to deny it straight to my face," she said.
Vaughn hopped up to chase after her. "Syd, we're supposed to be at the restaurant in-" He checked his watch and grimaced.
"We can be a couple of minutes late." Sydney turned flashing eyes on him. "Because that's all this is going to take. If I found out he did this to me, if he chose this life for me..." she shook her head slowly, "then I want nothing to do with him ever again."
Vaughn knew that with Sydney in this mood, the only smart thing he could do was to shut the hell up and follow.
Dixon was beginning to feel like he did on those days when Robin and Stephen weren't talking to each other. When his kids were feuding, he got to play the role of messaging centre. Tell her I'm still not talking to her. Ask him what he did with my shoes. Tell her I haven't seen her stupid shoes. Tell him he's a jerk.
Today, it seemed, he was playing the same game with the Bristows.
Sydney stormed in, Vaughn in tow, startling Weiss for the second time. "Where's my dad?" she demanded, in a practically identical tone to the one Jack had used. Only Sydney looked a lot more openly pissed.
Oh, boy.
"Weren't you guys on a date?" Weiss asked, sitting back.
"We are on a date," Vaughn told him, a little wryly.
"I need to talk to my dad," Sydney said, reining in the anger a little as it became obvious the target of it wasn't here. "Dixon...?"
"He went looking for you," Dixon explained. "I sent him over the restaurant." He checked the clock on his computer. Field agent habits made him mentally log the time of arrivals and departures. "He's probably almost there by now."
"Great," Sydney said tightly, and turned around, clearly intending to chase right over there on his tail.
"What's going on?" Weiss asked, straightening up as he recognised the intensity of her mood.
Dixon could almost feel sorry for Jack, although he was sure that Sydney had good reason to be mad at him. When it came to interfering in Sydney's life, Jack Bristow had long been a subscriber to the idea of asking forgiveness rather than permission. And he generally tried to evade the part where he had to ask forgiveness.
"He's got some explaining to do. And he obviously knows it," Sydney said grimly. Just then, Marshall came rushing into the room.
"Where's- oh, hey, Syd, didn't you leave?" he said distractedly. "Where's Agent Bristow - I mean, not you, obviously, the other... Agent Bristow?" He looked around as if Jack might be hiding behind a computer screen somewhere.
"Wow. When did he get to be so popular?" said Weiss, to no one in particular.
"He's looking for me," Sydney said.
Marshall blinked. "But... you're here," he said, almost plaintively.
"He's gone to the restaurant," Dixon supplied patiently.
"We have to stop him!" Marshall blurted. "I just intercepted, well, an intercept order on one of the channels that Sark gave us. Irina Derevko's organisation has dispatched operatives to go after him."
They all jumped up. "I'll try his cell," Dixon said.
Sydney was already more than halfway out the door.
Francie closed the phone with a wry smile and set it down on the restaurant table.
"No answer?" Will asked her.
She shook her head. "Guess it's just us for dinner again." She couldn't say she was surprised; disappointed maybe, but only because Sydney had finally come so close to actually making their dinner date before something had come up. They were both well used to playing second fiddle to Sydney's job.
"Maybe she was just delayed," Will said optimistically.
"Yeah." Francie swirled her wine and looked at her watch. "I guess we could give them another fifteen minutes."
"Hey, it's not like we're going to get kicked out by the manager," Will said, and she smiled. She studied his face almost wistfully, still vaguely amazed by the sudden turn that their friendship had taken. And wishing that Sydney was around long enough to actually share it with her. Maybe they should stop trying to build a perfect moment and just spit it out. If her new relationship with Will had proved anything, it was that you didn't always need the big dramatic declaration for things to work out just fine.
"Is that Sydney's dad?" Will said abruptly, sitting up to stare past her. Francie turned to follow his gaze.
Yup; Sydney's father, unmistakable with that long grey coat and the equally long grey face. But what was he doing in her restaurant? He was hardly the kind to just drop in to check out the food and show his support. Hell, he barely even managed to show Sydney his support.
Francie was cautiously pleased that Syd and her dad seemed to have reconnected a little, but she couldn't help but be pessimistic. He'd let her down again and again through her childhood, and if she leaned on him too heavily now he'd probably do it again. He clearly wasn't comfortable with anything as messy as human emotions, retreating into his safe, dull little world of airplane parts when Sydney needed him most.
Francie could almost have felt sorry for him, if it hadn't been her best friend who had to suffer for his inadequacies as a dad.
Still, he was Syd's family, and she pasted on a friendly smile as he approached their table. "Hi, Mr Bristow," she said, not bothering to disguise her surprise. "Are you looking for Sydney?"
"Is she here?" he asked stiffly - not that he was ever anything else.
"She was supposed to meet us at seven," Will said, checking the time. "I guess she's running a little late." He gave Jack a polite smile.
Etiquette probably demanded that they invite him to join them, but that would severely strain the atmosphere of their planned friendly dinner, and be even more awkward if Sydney didn't show up. Francie gratefully took the distraction of glancing past him as another group entered the restaurant.
Something struck her as off about them immediately. A trio of thirty-something men in dark suits, neither smiling nor talking to each other. They all seemed way too intense for a group of workmates out for a meal. One of them stayed by the door while the other two strode towards their table, completely ignoring Joanie as she approached them to offer a table.
Oh, God, it was those Mafia guys she'd talked to about dodgy liquor licences. They weren't happy that she'd turned them down and now they were here to muscle in on her business...
But it turned out they weren't here for her. Ignoring her and Will completely, the lead guy approached Jack and pulled out a badge. "Jack Bristow?" He flashed it and put it away too fast for Francie to fully register what it was. "I'm Agent Paulson, this is Agent Schofield. I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to come with us."
Francie turned to stare at Jack, and beside her Will was doing the same. What kind of trouble was he in? Some kind of shady business dealings, embezzlement or tax evasion? Had he come looking for Sydney knowing he was moments away from being arrested?
He certainly looked defeated. His shoulders sagged, and he rested his hands on the back of the chair in front of him.
-And then, without the slightest flicker of warning, picked it up off the ground and whacked Paulson around the head with it. Francie squeaked and Will rocked back in his chair, but the agents seemed to have been expecting resistance. As Paulson reeled away, his partner and the guy at the door both pulled out guns and opened fire.
Francie sat there in complete shock as the three men started shooting up her restaurant. Gunfire and screams filled the air, and she expected to see Jack Bristow go down in a hail of bullets except that he was suddenly somehow not where he'd been standing just a second ago.
Will pulled her down behind the table - had he been the one to throw it onto its side? Had Jack? Their wine glasses must have smashed, she'd have to order more...
"They're shooting," Francie said, which was pretty dumb, but the only thing that would come out from the whole mental mess of, don't they have to give a warning who are these people why are they after Jack where did Sydney's dad learn to do that thing he did with the chair-?
Jack Bristow appeared in front of her. "Is there a back exit out of this place?" he barked.
"Er, yeah, sure, the kitchens..." she said, pointing dazedly.
"Stay low!" He pulled her up and pushed her forward in the same motion, and Will grabbed her hand to haul her along from the other side. What, wait - why were they running? Wouldn't it be safer to just stay on the floor where they were? She turned her head with some half-formed idea of making that point, but Jack was hustling her along too fast for her to argue, one arm slung over her shoulders as if he might bodily pick her up and carry her if she didn't move fast enough. The only stupid thing that passed through her mind was, Huh. Guess he really is warm-blooded after all...
They passed through the kitchen in a blur. She saw the pale, startled face of one of her chefs, but there was no time to even think as Jack ushered them out the back door. The darkness and cool evening air were an abrupt shock to the system.
"Where do we go?" Will shouted to Jack.
Just then, a four-by-four came squealing up. Francie flinched back, half expecting more friends of the men in the restaurant to come pouring out shooting, but instead she heard a voice shout, "Dad, get in!"
"Sydney?" Will blurted out, jaw dropped.
Francie saw Syd's equally astonished gape through the open side window. "Will? Francie?"
"Get in, and stay down!" Jack ordered, urging her and Will into the back seats ahead of him. Francie realised as she scrambled in that Syd's boyfriend was sitting in the passenger seat. Jack pushed her head down as he checked out the rear window over his shoulder. "Take us back to the CIA," he told Sydney.
Take them back to the where? Crouched down low in their seats, Will and Francie exchanged bewildered glances.
What the hell was going on?
