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Title: There Is But Fire |
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Part 1 |
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Working for a man like Johannes Faber isn't something anyone would do for fun, and the fact that this is her deep cover assignment doesn't fill her with any sense of belief in civic welfare or patriotic duty. Those sentiments were attached to her life before, and one of the first things that caught her by surprise in this new life was how easily she left her dutiful outlook behind. Certainly she follows her orders and carries out her tasks, just as she's supposed to. She doesn't question very much any more either, provided she can see the logic behind the task. She's accepted the fact that deep cover posts are long-term, and the eleven months she's been here in Berlin have so far been quite successful. She knows that she'll most likely be here for another year, depending on how long it takes the CIA to get their operations organized, and how accurate the information is that she can relay to them. This isn't a job any more, not exactly. It would be hard to call it a life, either. It's a set of tasks waiting to be completed, instructions that need to be followed. An assignment, a contract, a mission. Remember the facts, memorize the names, snap the photographs. Become his confidante. Gain his trust, do what you're told, do what you have to do. Dead drops. Covert meeting every three months. Forget about yourself, is the unspoken addition to the list, and most days, that's just fine - it's part of the reason she wanted a deep cover assignment in the first place. She knows that Berlin is one step in a series that make up the path her life will now take. Her certainty that it will some day come to an end is something that comforts her, reassures her that she can move on. Still, there are some things she refuses to do. * * * * It was a year ago, about two months in to her cover, when Faber sent her to Moscow to negotiate a purchase on his behalf. He warned her to play her cards properly and give his contact the proper qualifications. She knows now that she should have seen through it. It would have been so glaringly obvious to her if only she'd paid the right attention. When she arrived in Moscow it was only so she could wait another hour for Faber's contact to show. He arrived with one bodyguard in tow and a casual swagger in his step. She was brisk. "Do you have the specs?" "Sure, sweetheart. It's Karen, right? Why so tense?" Actually, it's not Karen, it's Sydney. And fuck off. "Don't call me sweetheart. I don't appreciate being kept waiting." "Sure, darling. I've got everything waiting around the corner, you can...view the merchandise for yourself." "That wasn't the deal. Faber didn't say anything about any secondary arrangements." He was very close to her then. "I don't really give a shit what Faber arranged. I'm telling you if you want the specs, then you're coming with me. Right now." Her arm was in his grip and his eyes roamed greedily along the collar of her jacket and the curve of her hips. A lascivious smile turned on his face, and she knew then exactly what secondary arrangements Faber had accounted for, and what specs he wanted delivered. Sydney wrenched her arm away. She did this once before in her life and managed to erase it, and would be damned if she did it again. "I'm going to tell you one more time. Give me the specs now, or I walk away. Do you have them or not?" "I don't think you get it, Karen sweetheart - you'll have the specs when you give me something in exchange, all right?" Her knee met his stomach before words could answer first, and the sound of her right hook against his cheek quickly followed. She had her gun trained on his companion before either of the men could draw a weapon. "That's the only exchange you'll get from me until you give me what I want. Tell your friend," she said then to the bodyguard, "if he wants to deal I'll expect his phone call in the next 30 minutes. If not, he can take his business elsewhere and pretend he never met me." She was back in Berlin that evening, and immediately squared off with Faber in his office. He was less than sympathetic. "I sent you to do a job!" he shouted. "And that's what I went there to do," she countered just as forcefully. "I just didn't expect the job was going to involve working as your whore." She spat out the words with such distaste it was as if she was talking to Kendall again, not the head of Europe's largest drug and weapons cartel. He looked at her in affronted shock and stepped around the desk so casually she thought he was about to apologize for his mistake. Sydney was on the floor before she could think; One of her hands was pressed to her jaw where his slap had landed across her cheek, her other wrapped around her stomach as if bracing herself against a second blow. "When I send you to do a job," he told her, "I expect you to do the job." She coughed and winced, grasping at a nearby chair. He watched her pull herself up to stand in front of him again, steeling her resolve to meet whatever he would throw at her next. "If that's the job you want done, then find someone else to do it." Given her covert presence, she knew those words verged on suicide for her, but she pressed on. "You hired me because I can do more than that. If this is your twisted idea of a test, then you can forget it." Even according to her false profile, she was overqualified for the jobs he'd been giving her, and Faber knew it. She'd come to him with a laundry list of hits in North America and Europe, experienced in disarming security, blackmail, weapons, trades...The CIA had gone full throttle on her profile. Karen Sorensen was a freelancer who could do everything Agent Sydney Bristow could do, and then some. Faber's hand moved to take a second swipe at her, but she was ready this time and sidestepped the punch. She caught his arm in seconds, and three more seconds later she had him pinned to his desk, his face caught against the stapler. A groan of surprised pain escaped his mouth. Sydney knew she had taken back the upper hand, at least for the moment. "Call me when you have real work for me to do." She dodged the rest of his employees on her way out, and spent the next three days moving back and forth between her apartment and the most crowded places she could think of. She saw the tails, and they knew she saw them. Her fingers itched to pull out her cell phone, call Faber and tell him she'd been foolish. But she resisted. On the third day she got the call from Faber. This time the job would be in Prague. This time the job would be different.
More than a year has passed since that trip to Moscow. There's no work for her today and she takes the time to explore the parts of Berlin that are familiar to her. The paths along die Linden aren’t usually where she walks, but today she tries again. The appeal isn’t the competitive attraction of the location, or the fact that regardless of the season she is forced to weave carelessly between the tourists that flock between the benches and ice cream stands and souvenir vendors at either end. This same walk through the middle of the city used to remind her of too many old possibilities, a sense of newness that has gradually faded from her life. Sydney turns the corner and walks through the Brandenburg gate and knows she should feel anything but trapped, here at this site that should represent so much freedom and possibility. She's standing steps ahead of the many state office buildings that reside nearby, including the American embassy, and steps behind the rows of pale yellow leaves that dignify the trees. If she turns back, limestone grey walls of stone and state and history will remind her of the past lives that will never be returned to her. If she continues, the leaves will eventually fall to her feet and she will wonder at the futures she might have had. The gate stands behind her as she turns her gaze to the right and her eye lights on one of the ice cream carts, one which so far has seen relatively little traffic. Just now, she doesn’t care that it’s barely mid-morning or that it’s a little chilly for the early September day. She buys a hazelnut scoop and thanks the elderly gentleman. “Danke schoen.” “Bitte sehr, Fraeulein.” This city isn’t the same as Los Angeles, but it’s also expansive and busy and big enough to get lost in. There are days when she wants nothing else but to lose herself, even for the scarce few hours that it takes her to roam one of the central galleries or ride the trains to the bare outskirts of town. Because it’s still early in the day, the wooden benches haven’t yet been invaded by touring sightseers or lunchtime visitors. She takes a long glance towards them, but in the end turns away, walking briskly towards the Tiergarten. When she crosses the street the busy traffic is only a brief distraction, and it takes three tastes before she realizes the hazelnut is actually pistachio.
She never ceases to be amazed by the way he works. American crime lords meet everywhere from the hotel Ritz to dingy alleyways, but Faber operates like he's your average upscale security contractor. Upstanding office, discrete staff, expensive suits. His coiffed black hair looks like it came out of the latest style magazine, just like the rest of his clothing and the décor in his office. He always talks to Sydney in English, even though he knows she speaks German, and she knows that he knows. His accent is still noticeable although it's clear to her how skilled he is in language among other things. There are moments now when she almost gets down on her knees to thank SD-6 for all the covert practice it gave her. Compared to the effort it took for her to smile breezily at Sloane, working with Faber is like returning to grade school. It also doesn’t hurt that she made her standards clear to him so early on. Faber still looks at her in a way that makes her skin crawl, and she knows that when she turns to leave a room he's watching the sway of her hips and the curve of her leg. She knows he's looking, and she lets him. Since the botched Moscow operation she's complied with everything she's considered appropriate, particularly as long as it is something the CIA requires of her, and she's gotten away with it. The rougher she treats Faber, the gentler he acts towards her, and the shorter her skirts get, the more powerful she becomes. It makes her smile, in her moments alone. When he watches her, speaks to her, she gives off just enough appreciation to make him feel proud of her, and that's the only reason she lets him look at her the way he does. Enough satisfaction warms her from the inside, and she can keep going until that day far down the road when this cover will end and another new life will begin. She's learned to lower her expectations, and so she's not sure whether or not to be surprised when, one year and one month after Moscow, she walks into Faber's office and finds a familiar figure sitting in one of the Italian leather armchairs. "Ah, Karen," Faber says, standing up to make introductions. It hasn't taken a whole year for him to become this cordial around her. "This is Evan Crane, a new business associate. He comes to us from London." No, she thinks. Absolutely, no. He seems stronger than she remembers. His clothing is simpler, and his hair is tinted brown instead of blond. And although it's faded and healed quite a bit in the last five years, a thin scar curves underneath his right eye across his cheekbone, betraying the harsh interrogation strategies of her ex-husband. Indeed, her own style has become darker and less professional than what the man in front of her now would have expected from her before. Her hair falls in straight auburn strands far below her shoulders, and her brown eyes are masked by hazel contact lenses. Still, there is no question. I am Sydney Bristow, this is Julian Sark, and he is anything but a simple business associate. She holds out her hand anyway, as professionally as she has done every day for the last year. "Karen Sorensen," she introduces herself. Her pulse quickens as her mind considers for a moment what this man could possibly be doing here. This was a man she had never even expected to see alive again, let alone three feet away from her in this office. Her mind races through a catalogue of possibilities, each one an attempt to convince her that this is all a coincidence and nothing else. He stands as well. "Karen, is it?" he asks, to which she inclines her head slightly. He hasn’t lost the British accent. "Lovely to meet you." He leans forward for a moment when he takes her hand and she thinks that will be all, but that's not all, because he dips further and brushes his lips across the back of her hand. "The pleasure is all mine," he says agreeably. She's caught off guard for a second - something that hasn’t happened in months - but soon she's recovered herself enough to snap her fingers away from his and respond with a glare. As she does so he stiffens with a nodding reply, a brief retreat from his eager greeting. When she rounds the armchair to lean against the desk, she catches Faber glancing towards her with a question in his eye. She knows the reason, because the last time a man tried to bring his lips anywhere near a part of her body, Faber watched her break the man's wrist. Sydney returns a hardened glare of disdain and faces Sark again, but her question is still aimed at Faber. "To what do we owe this new partnership?" She asks, deliberately using the plural possessive. Her voice betrays exactly the right amount of skepticism and disinterest, and so she is pleased to watch the expression on Sark's face weaken in frustration. She's certain this isn't something Faber would bother to notice, but Sydney's been on the receiving end of that expression before, close enough to recognize it now, years later. "Mr. Crane comes to us with a considerable number of North American contacts who will be most helpful to us," he tells her. She fights the urge to roll her eyes at how innocently he describes the business he is running. "Of course, we'll be working very closely for the next few months, arranging some new contracts, this sort of thing. Karen, I'm sure you'll be an excellent liaison in this, given your own experiences in the United States?" Avoiding the pleased look she knows is creeping back across Sark's face, she turns to Faber and can practically see the question marks turning into dollar signs. Right now Sydney can guess at how thrilled he is to have these two people in the room with him and under his direction. She's also willing to bet he doesn't care how she acts, just that she doesn't break anything of Sark's that Faber needs to conduct his lucrative affairs. "I don't see why not," she says evenly, offering 'Mr. Crane' an appraising glance. "Excellent," Faber answers, looking back and forth between the two of them for a moment, before turning to Sydney. "Why don't the two of you get to know each other a little? In the mean time you can work out the details of our first project - there's some property on the American East Coast that interests me for storage purposes, and I'm sure you and Evan will have some ideas on which shipments we should arrange first." He sets a file down on the desk next to Sydney, smiling the entire time. The dollar signs just got a little bigger. "Sure. It sounds like we shouldn't waste any time." She flashes the briefest of smiles towards Faber and turns back to Sark, who is still on his feet. "I couldn't agree more," Sark answers. Sydney looks down at the file next to her and picks it up as she nods at Faber. "All right. Let's get started." * * * * * Faber keeps a handful of meeting rooms available in the building he owns near the Potsdamer Platz, and Sydney and Sark occupy one of those rooms by themselves. She's sitting at the far end of the table, and he's reclining in a chair at the side. She's got her glasses on, her laptop out, and her eyes are glancing back and forth between the screen and the keyboard and the pages scattered between them on the table. They've been working like this for two hours. To anyone else who might be watching, this is a business meeting between Karen Sorensen and Evan Crane, and they are working very efficiently. There's a knock at the door, and Sophie, one of Faber's assistants, opens the door to look in on them. Sydney gives her a request for lunch, and she scurries off again. A silent pause lingers between them, and in the hallway outside the room. Sydney decides to try. "How long have you been running your own operation, Mr. Crane?" she asks as if only out of casual curiosity, her attention still on the laptop. "It's rare to meet someone so young who is also so successful." The last time she or the CIA had heard of Sark was five years ago, after he escaped CIA custody for the second time. A month after that there was a shooting outside Taipei, and several well-known Covenant operatives were killed. A fire claimed enough damage to prevent positive identification of all of them, but nonetheless the Agents who were involved in the investigation had confirmed Julian Sark as one of them. The fact that the CIA had had no reports of his activities since then had only solidified that report. It took another year before the Covenant splintered and was finally destroyed. By then there were few enemies of the United States that could compare with the Covenant's reach, and even fewer targets left, to Sydney's frustration. She chose the most challenging operation she could find. Now here she sits, casually doing business with someone she'd believed to be dead, and arranging property transfers and warehouse holdings for a man she is learning to despise almost as much as Arvin Sloane. Sark watched her for a moment. "We all have ambitions," he says, as if in explanation. "I try to follow as many of mine as possible." "You remind me of someone I knew once," she tells him, looking at him now. "Really? How remarkable," he allows, apparently unsurprised at her comment. Perhaps they both knew it would only be a matter of time before this conversation happened between them. "Yes, it is. But then, I'm not sure he was in the same line of work as you are now." She reclines a little in her seat as she talks, and notices him reacting, nodding ever so slightly. "It's your manner that reminds me of him. The way you talk." "Indeed." He speaks evenly, revealing only what is necessary. When she looks at him she still catches the unmistakable glint in his eye. He answers her with just enough confidence to let her know that he's exactly who she thinks he is, and possibly more. "It was very intriguing at first. But now, I see that you couldn't possibly be him." She sits straightly again, pulling the laptop a bit closer to her chair. "Of course. I would have remembered if I had met you before," he nods. "Yes. Actually I remember now – I read in the paper that this man died. I think he was killed in a fire." This much is true, and she knows he would have expected her to be aware of it. She's waiting to see if he chooses to reveal anything else. He lifts his eyebrows a little, but doesn’t respond right away. "What a shame. I must say, though, you do remind me of someone, also," he tells her, and she can tell that the subject of his whereabouts after his 'death' are no longer a topic for conversation. Two can play at this game, apparently. "What a coincidence." She blinks slowly, wondering if she can answer just as skillfully as he has. "It is, I know. This woman, she had the same way of speaking as you do, the same...attractive figure," he adds, and she's a little startled at this. Still, she resists his bait. "But I would have remembered meeting you," Sydney tells him. "You seem like the sort of man who would leave a lasting impression." She can't describe why she finds herself teasing him back. Somehow she finds herself enjoying this exchange more than she expected. "You flatter me." "Not at all. Do you know what happened to this woman, the one I remind you of?" She's curious at what he knows. He shakes his head slowly. "No. The last I heard, she didn't have a very happy life." Her gaze has drifted briefly, but she looks back at him now, directly at him. He's finally done it, he's touched the right nerve. She's off-balance again, and takes a second to compose her thoughts. "I'm sorry to hear that," she says faintly. "Yes, so was I," he answers, equally calm. Just then, Sophie knocks on the door, and lunch is served. For the rest of the day, they say nothing else about each other.
One month later Evan Crane has visited Berlin three times, each time including Karen Sorensen in whatever affairs he needed to arrange. Each time she affords him a wide professional distance, or at least as wide as she can make it. During a meeting on the fourth visit, he stands a little too close and brushes her arm with his when he reaches for a file. She flinches, but takes a long appraising look back at him as she turns again. When she does, he’s looking right at her, a calm but decisive look on his face. She's trying to decide if her surprise resembles affront more than pleasure, when she realizes how very long it's been since she stood this close to a man and felt a sense of normality - let alone comfort. This man in front of her has become a part of her life here, whether she has planned for it or not. What she still can't tell is how much of a part that will be. She avoids his glance for hours afterwards, and doesn’t say goodbye to him when he leaves. The next day Evan Crane is gone again, and she’s sipping a strong cup of coffee in Faber’s office. “You and Evan are working well together,” he tells her, sitting down with his own black cup. He inhales the scent before taking his first sip. “Are we?” she asks, leaning back and observing the Klee print on his wall. He nods, sets his cup on the desk in front of him. “You must be. I haven’t seen him suffer any consequences that would indicate otherwise. Also, the accounts are showing considerable improvements.” She turns her head just enough to catch him in her line of sight. “He’s very good at what he does.” Faber smiles slowly and then nods again, as if waiting to hear more. But this is all she will offer now, and so he picks up his coffee again "So are you, my dear," he tells her. "So are you." Her pulse quickens again, something that bothers her. She tells herself she has nothing to be ashamed of.
Another month passes before her next meeting with an Agent, face to face. It’s her father this time, not the more junior Agent who’s been handling her until now. There are many guesses in her mind as to why Jack Bristow hasn’t been sent before, but she has the feeling his appearance now indicates that the stakes have been raised. She walks to the U-bahn and from there takes a cab to the nightclub, one of the places she’s met an Agent before. It makes her a little nervous to be repeating her locations, but it’s a Saturday night, and it’s busy, and she’s dressed to convey all the appearances of a girl ready for a good time. It’s a club with private rooms, which makes a meeting there all the easier to arrange. When she arrives, she knows her father is waiting for her two floors above the main entrance, and it takes her about fifteen minutes to smile at all the right people, sip at a poorly mixed manhattan, and make her way in the direction of the ladies room. At the last possible moment she takes a detour and finds the darkened rear stairwell. Finding out that your father had plans for you virtually from the day of your birth would be an unusual experience at best, and Sydney's made that discovery more than once in her life by now. Forgiveness has been hard. But she's also come to realize that her father may be the only person in the world she can trust implicitly - or at least, the closest she may ever find. She's accepted the fact that the things he has done for her, he has done for a reason. Most days, she can sink into this new existence and the memories don't follow too closely. But there are days when memories wake her from her sleep, or find her suddenly in the middle of an assignment. She misses him then. Even Jack has to admit he’s had difficulties watching his daughter commit herself to such an isolated assignment, and for such a long time. She steps into the room and shuts the door quickly, and he enfolds her in his arms before she can speak. Sydney lets him end the embrace, too, and when he releases her she drinks in the sight of him just as eagerly as he does her. Her eyelashes flutter quickly against the dampness that threatens to spring up, and she swallows against the lump in her throat. It’s been too long since she’s seen him. He looks thinner than he used to – not too much, but enough that she notices. His hair seems greyer than before. He’s taking in her appearance as well, and she wonders what he sees. His fingers catch on a lock of auburn hair, brushing it away from the collar of her leather jacket. “A wig?” he asks. Sydney shakes her head. “In the beginning, but not any more. Dye is easier.” She realizes this is the first time he’s actually seen her since she disappeared into this identity. He might have seen pictures, but he’s never seen Karen Sorensen before. Just then she remembers protocol, and reaches into her pocket for the tube of lipstick. One twist gives them three minutes of additional security. The noise of the club music is dampened by the walls that surround them now, but the sound still invades the room, enough to make them comfortable about speaking freely. Still, activating the interference device is standard procedure, and neither of them wants to take any chances. Jack nods, as if considering how long to delay the professional nature of their meet. She’s not sure what to say next, and so she says one of the few things she knows she can say. “Dad, we don’t have a lot of time...” she tells him gently. “I know, sweetheart.” He turns to remove an envelope from his jacket pocket, and she blinks hard against the endearment he offers her so easily. “Your updated SOP, all the new information. There’s a cell phone with upgraded security features, and a new bug killer as well,” he tells her as he hands over the small packet. She takes it and exchanges it for one she’s kept hidden inside her own pockets - written details and photographs the Agency will need. “Thanks.” “The CIA is still considering exactly how you should operate with Sark,” he adds briskly. She’s expected that this would come up, and she nods. Her last dead drop had a brief amount of detail on Evan Crane. “Any instructions in the mean time?” she asks. “For now, stay close. Find out all you can about the North American operations, the locations, the actors involved. You might be able to help us disarm a larger network than we'd originally thought.” She cringes inwardly at his words and the memories they allow to return. She never asked for another SD-6, and she never asked for Julian Sark. But she nods, understanding what this means for her mission. “Has he given you any indication of a threat?” he asks, and not just out of professional need. She’s touched that he asks, even though she knows this is as much a necessary question as fatherly concern. Her head shakes from side to side. “No. Not yet, at least.” “Do you think he might?” She doesn’t answer right away, just exhales for a moment as she considers her answer. “No...” she says finally, “I don’t think so. In fact, he seems different than he was before. Not just in the way he looks.” “What do you mean?” “I’m not sure if I can explain it,” she continues honestly, shrugging. “Before, whenever I came up against him, he always seemed so methodical and ambitious. But it wasn’t all serious for him, I think. It was like he was playing a game, and he enjoyed watching the pieces move when he changed something. “Now, though…He’s capable, but he doesn’t have the same kind of enthusiasm. There’s no doubt that he recognizes me, but he doesn’t seem interested in the past, not enough to try to play me somehow. It's like he's just here to do the job and that's all.” “Sydney, be careful with him,” Jack tells her quickly, concern rising in his voice. “Sark’s been invisible for nearly five years, there’s no telling what his plans are or how Faber fits into them. He could just be waiting for you to make the first mistake.” She nods back her understanding, hesitant about saying anything further. “Keep us updated as often as you can,” he tells her. “We might want to increase the frequency of your drops, but we don’t want to arouse suspicion, either. I’ll let you know the next time we meet.” Another nod. “I’ll do what I can,” she answers. There’s another pause, then, before Jack relays a few protocol changes. They’ve played out the professional necessities, now, and she takes the moment to shore up the courage to ask him about one of the only other people she thinks about from before. “How is he?” she asks. Five years ago she and Vaughn were together again. Four years ago, they were married. Skip ahead another two years and they were already separated, and the divorce was only made official about six months before she came to Berlin. She doesn’t like to dwell on it, nor is it something she’s proud of. But she can’t bring herself to detest Michael Vaughn. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to do that. Jack’s eyes soften a little when he answers. “He requested a transfer to Langley two months ago,” he says. “I think Weiss still keeps in touch.” She nods, blinking again, and looks down this time as she puts her hands back in her jacket pockets. “Tell Weiss I said hello,” she responds, and knows that Weiss will take that message whatever way he wants to take it. “I will.” Their meeting is coming to an end, now. Three minutes have almost passed. “Good luck, Sydney,” he tells her, and holds her again. The love that underwrites that statement is clear as daylight, and it makes her swallow hard against the emotion welling in her throat as she responds. “Thanks, Dad. Good luck to you too.” She would say so much more to him if she had the time, and lets him press his arms around her more tightly than he ever has before. For a few seconds longer, she is simply his daughter, and nothing more.
Faber flies Karen Sorensen and Evan Crane to Moscow a couple of weeks later, a necessary detail since the American operations are rapidly coming to fruition, and he needs the loyalty of as many suppliers as possible. Sark walks a few steps behind Sydney as they make their way into the dim warehouse not far from the landing site. It’s only mid-afternoon, but the weather is grey and cool, and the shadows indoors run darker and longer than usual. Still, she’s calm when they approach and she registers the very familiar face of their contact. She wonders if he’s the same as he ever was. Perhaps he’s had a change of heart. It’s amazing the kind of reputation Faber carries, and she knows the influence that one botched job can have. The man smiles towards them, now apparently very eager to see her. “Karen, my darling,” he greets her in accented English. “It is lovely to do business with you again. It's been too long since I've seen you...” He glances up then, noticing Sark behind her, and his attention shifts between the two of them. Eventually he settles again on Sydney. “You have some requests for shipment, am I right?” She answers briskly, pulling out a list from the inside of her jacket. “Our employer would like these delivered to New York as soon as possible. Within a month at the latest,” she adds, before handing him another envelope. “You’ll find the necessary instructions for delivery in here.” He’s nodding, scanning the list only briefly. "Of course, of course," he answers, maintaining his enthusiasm. Sydney hands him another piece of paper, separate from the original order. "We'd also like to have these items waiting for us here before we return to Berlin tonight. Faber requests samples of the new prototypes, and we'd appreciate a few extra supplies for the moment." She expects him to act as he has done every other time she's made last minute requests for Faber - with indignation or irritation. But this time he nods, taking both pieces of paper in his hand and passing them to his associate. His man takes the lists and steps away to the far doorway, dialing a few numbers on his cell phone. He closes the brief gap between them, a relaxed smile on his face. "Karen, my dear..." he tries again. "It's so good to see you again. I never miss seeing your face..." Of course, it's not her face upon which his eyes linger. One of his hands settles on her hip, and as he turns his gaze back to her face she catches the scent of alcohol on his breath, sour in the still air of the warehouse. She closes her eyes, briefly, steadying herself for her response. There are few things in the world she has as little patience for as this. "Kindly remove your hand," she says, "Or I'll remove it for you." She listens behind her, but Sark doesn't approach or offer protest on her behalf, and she experiences an inward moment of annoyance and impatience. "Come now, Karen, I thought we were friends, d-" She doesn't wait to hear if it will be "darling" or "dear" or "dearest" that leaves his lips next. Her fist makes contact with his wrist before he can manage anything else. She follows the punch with a knee between his legs, and he doubles over with a grunt of surprise. "We're flying out at eight o'clock sharp," she says. "Have the supplies and the delivery manifests waiting for us by then. We'll be waiting for your call." And with that, she turns and strides away from him, past Sark who as far as she can tell hasn't moved an inch since they arrived. She marches through the exit and is vaguely aware of their contact and his bodyguard shouting Russian expletives after her. Sark turns away swiftly and follows when she's out the door. They're almost thirty yards away before it occurs to her that she doesn't know where their next destination is just yet, but she keeps walking anyhow. Finally she glances towards her partner. "Thanks for your help," she tells him, bitter sarcasm evident in her tone. "You seemed to be handling yourself just fine," he responds evenly, perhaps even slightly amused. She feels a frustrated warmth spreading across her cheeks, and can think of little else to say in answer.
Sark continues his now-weekly visits to Berlin. Sydney accepts her duties along with his presence, and decides she might as well take the lead rather than waiting for him to drop precious details across meeting rooms or in dark storage facilities. On the day when she's trying to figure out how she can ask him to lunch with her and not seem overly interested, Faber solves the problem for her. "You've been doing so well with Evan," he tells her, "I want you two to go and celebrate." This kind of generosity doesn't come from Faber very often, and she expresses her skepticism. "You can't be serious." "Of course I am, my dear. Business has never been better, and I have the two of you to thank for it." He hands her a card, the address of a very upscale restaurant downtown - one she must have walked by dozens of times and never considered for more than a few seconds. "You've got reservations for eight at the Adlon," he tells her, and pats her waist amiably. "My expense." The expression she returns is flat, as if she'd much rather be drinking bad coffee and eating overcooked sausages at the stand on the corner two blocks away. As it is, the coffee in the mug she holds in her hand is already too strong, and she'd give her eyeteeth for a proper Sachertorte to go with it. Some days the only good thing about deep cover is the ability to actually stop and experience the mission locations from time to time. She takes a second glance at the card and reminds herself of that very fact. "I'm not sure this is really my style," she says evenly, burying any visible interest. "Maybe the restaurant isn't," he allows, "But I thought he might be." He winks at her as if he's known what's best for her all along. Sydney glances up again quickly, indignation burning in her cheeks. She's still reeling from the suggestion, but doesn't give herself any time to register if it was an accurate one. The coffee splashes onto his face and down the collar of his shirt, and she angrily sets the mug down on his desk as she walks from the room. "For God's sake, Karen, everyone needs a night out sometime," he scoffs at her as she leaves. She doesn't turn back to respond, only hurls the door open without bothering to stop it from hitting the wall.
An hour passes in her apartment before she stops fuming and finally gives in. What the hell. I have to eat. Once she overcomes her frustration over a man like Faber trying to show off for her, she reminds herself that, regardless of any other context, tonight could be very useful. If Sark becomes more comfortable with her, that would make her ultimate task a great deal easier, and if she happens to have a fine meal at the same time, so much the better. Vaguely she wonders if this is another one of Faber's ideas of a test, but she brushes the thought aside. He's had months to test her with Sark, and he's obviously already decided she's passed the grade, otherwise she wouldn't be standing here tonight searching her closet for something appropriate to wear. The hooks and hangers reveal little variety in colour or cut, and so there is a very short list of selections to choose from for what she can easily wear to this particular restaurant. At least black never goes out of style, she muses. The dress she finds behind a faded jacket hasn't been worn in months, but it's clean and still stylish and clings to her in all the right places. She pulls it on, becoming pleasantly accustomed to the feel of the smooth fabric on her skin. For a moment she considers her reflection in the mirror and wonders if it's enough. At last she shakes away the last of her criticisms and brushes the last tangles out of her long hair. A moment later she's grabbing her handbag and swallowing her pride and locking the door behind her.
"Put off that mask of burning gold "O no, my dear, you make so bold ~v1, 'The Mask' * * * * * He’s already there when she arrives, but says nothing about her lack of punctuality. Sark simply stands to greet her before graciously pulling away her chair for her, at the elegant corner table near the window. There are candles on each table, and the scene is inviting. She nods back with equal politesse, and gratefully takes her seat. “Thank you.” “My pleasure.” He sits down opposite her, allowing himself a brief moment to adjust his jacket and tie. Watching that small gesture makes her smile, and she finds herself reclining and carrying on as if this evening was simply one of many. “Have you already ordered?” There’s a bottle of wine on the table and his glass is only half full. A waiter appears just then and offers her a menu, which she accepts and opens. “Not yet,” he answers. “Just the wine.” A glance at the bottle on the table reveals his selection as a local Dornfelder, and she registers her approval with a nod as she begins to glance through the menu. It’s been raining outside, and her pulse still races a little from her dash across the street when she left her taxi. Slowly, she inhales and exhales as she takes in her surroundings. Her confidence returns by the time she exhales a second time, and she makes her selection before closing the menu again. The waiter returns to take their order and fill both of their glasses, then leaves them alone once more. Sydney's forgotten how long it’s been since she’s had this fine a meal. Faber has seen that she doesn’t lack for compensation, but companionship has been harder. She reaches for her glass and takes a welcome sip. The wine is very good. Its taste is smooth and inviting at first, becoming stronger as it curls around her tongue. She takes an appreciative look at her glass as she swallows, and then a second, brief sip before setting down the glass. When she looks back at Sark, he's raised his glass as well, affording her an uninterrupted moment to take in his appearance. In the weeks and months she's been obliged to work with this man, she has discovered little about him that is very surprising. His precision in all things is the same as she remembers, along with the wit that sharpens his conversation. And yet, there is a strength and maturity about him that she doesn't remember from before - something in the way he speaks and carries himself that is different. It's not just that his appearance has changed. Perhaps it's just age, she thinks, and then suddenly wonders what he might be thinking of her. She considers whether the same years have been harsher to her, and reaches a tentative hand to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She blinks, picking up her wine again, and the next thought that crosses her mind is that here, right now, she'd probably answer just about any question he would ask. The thought makes her numb, and her fingers suddenly lose sensation of the glass she holds. Would he do the same for her? He speaks first. "Have you dined here before?" Another glance around the room, a brief shake of her head. "No, this is the first time. I don't spend many evenings out." Sark seems a little surprised. "I find that hard to believe in such a vibrant city." She shrugs briefly. "I've visited a few restaurants, the occasional nightclub," she says. And once in a while, a secret dead drop or covert phone call in a shady back alley. "I like walking, mostly." His eyebrows lift slightly, as if he hadn't expected that answer from her. He leans towards the table more casually, expecting her to continue. "Anywhere in particular?" Sydney puts down her glass once more, considering this. "Just about anywhere in the Mitte, really. The old cathedral is beautiful at sunset," she finds herself saying. "So are the botanical gardens. Sometimes I go jogging." She tilts her head, slightly, looking back at him. "And what about you? Do you take much time for yourself when you're here?" "Some," he admits. "Although I'm sure you're aware of how challenging that can be in our line of work." "Of course," she answers, no desire to elaborate on that particular comment just yet. "I do agree, it is a striking city to experience on foot." She wonders what she should or could say next, since she has no desire to discuss their professional activities in one of Berlin's finest establishments, nor is she inclined to speak of their past in any way that is remotely obvious. She sips from her wine again, and he does the same. Another minute passes, and the waiter arrives with their salads. Glad of the brief reprieve, and suddenly aware of her appetite, she sets down her glass and pulls the serviette gently across her lap. The waiter refills their glasses courteously and is gone once again. She's just reaching for her fork when Sark's next comment catches her unprepared. "Faber seems protective of you." He is curious, watching her reaction as he inquires. "Yes, he is." The curtness returns to her voice. She hadn't expected an observation of that nature, at least not this late in the game. His head tilts slightly. "I've always wondered why. He certainly never -" Sark pauses then, as if rethinking how he frames that sentence. "You don't seem like the kind of woman who would be interested in him on more than a professional level." Her eyes flash back at him, dark in the candlelight. "You're right, I'm not." "Then why should he be protective of you?" She's still deciding some things as she considers her answer. Since that first veiled conversation, neither of them has made any moves towards an explanation of any part of their lives. Until tonight, this hasn't worried her. But the man sitting opposite her is the only person available in her life who can help her bridge that gap between then and now, and even if his loyalties are suspect and his ambitions even more so, somehow it's a tempting enough offer. This is the closest she's come to companionship in so very, very long. Companionship, she considers. Is that what this is? With a slow gesture she replaces her fork next to her plate and glances back at him, ever curious at his ease around her. She blinks, realizing then that the answer to his question is much easier than she thought. "Because I don't want him to be," she answers simply. "I don't need him to be, either." He lifts his eyebrows as he registers this, and nods back. One by one, cards are being laid down, and he starts to see where the boundaries will lie among them. They hold each other's gaze for a moment. Only the ambient noise of the restaurant surrounds them, and, even if slightly, the tension between them seems to have dissipated. Sydney raises her glass again as she breaks her glance, and a calm breath escapes her lips. The rest of their meal passes in relative silence, their conversation sporadic and calm compared to the curiosity that lies waiting beneath. Later, she won't remember most of their words. She can only guess at the rest of the questions he might ask her - about her life before she came to Berlin, why she left, why she does anything. She might ask him a few things too, starting with how he escaped that fire in Taipei, or what he really does in London when he's not here working with her and Faber. But they're both hesitant, and she's willing to keep it that way for now. It is still raining when they leave the restaurant. They leave in separate taxis, but not before he walks out with her to the exit. When they move through the doors into the damp night air, she feels the slightest touch of his hand at her back, but does not turn to look at him as she steps into the cab. As the driver starts to pull away she turns then to glance towards him, lifting her hand slightly as if to wave. But by then, he has turned away as well, and the last she sees is him lifting the collar of his jacket against the wind, before walking away to find a taxi of his own.
The next time Sydney speaks with her father it's a few weeks after that first dinner with Sark. She waits calmly at a café just off the Ku'damm, which is already bustling with the activities of late-season tourists and weekend shoppers. There's a pay phone just steps away which she is to visit in a few minutes, after she hears it ring once. As she waits she sips at her Milchkaffee and considers the crowds from her vantage point. Her eyes catch on a middle-aged couple, then a man walking by himself with a map in one hand, and then a young woman holding hands with a girl who looks about nine or ten years old. She wonders how long they've been in Berlin, what they're all looking for. Probably shopping. The Charlottenburg, maybe the museums or the Oranienplatz, certainly the wall… Suddenly Sydney sets down her coffee and realizes suddenly that she herself hasn't even seen these things, even the remnants of the Berlin Wall. More than a year and a half in this city and the main attraction itself is something that never even appeared relevant to her. She takes a moment and relaxes a little and takes another warm sip from her cup. You're not a tourist, Syd, get over it. You're not here to see the sights, you're here for the long haul. Nevertheless, a dull ache stays with her as she hears the ringing phone a few moments later. She stands and leaves her cup sitting empty at her place. She picks up the phone on the fifth ring of the second call, as she's been instructed. "Guten Tag," she answers. "Sydney," her father answers. "This line is secure. It's good to hear your voice," he says, his own tone softening. "Thanks," she says, pausing briefly. "Yours, too. What's happening?" she asks, keeping things brisk. She's anxious to know what she'll have to prepare for. "I'll be brief," he tells her. "Our timetable is continuing ahead of schedule. We've planned to intercept Faber's communication network within the next two weeks in at least one, possibly two locations." She knows what this means. The CIA has enough to go on to tap into the system, and if it's happening now then they must be anxious to make a move. God knows she is. "Why sooner? Why not wait according to the original plan?" She keeps her voice steady and as quiet as possible. Despite the bugkiller in her ring that presses against the telephone receiver, she's not ready to start drawing too much attention to her conversation. Her left hand stretches out in front of her as she examines her fingernails and tries to look as though she's making plans for dinner. "There is considerable…pressure for results. Apparently the payoff expectation has not been met according to schedule." Those words hang in the air between them, and Sydney feels a knot of anxiety curl tighter inside her. She wonders if she's been doing something wrong, or if the NSA or someone else has been strong-arming the CIA brass. Either way, her cheeks darken and the tone of her voice becomes bitter. "If there are any standards that I haven't been fulfilling, I would hope to be informed right away," she says pointedly. "Sydney, I assure you," Jack tells her, "you're doing just fine. The Task Force feels that there is enough to go on to make a move sooner than expected, and so that's what we're doing." There's a pause, and Sydney exhales quietly. "I know, Dad, it's just…I know I chose this assignment, but that doesn't mean I want to do this forever," she says, ducking her head as she leans inside the phone booth. "I want to bring him down as much as anyone," she adds hopefully. "I want this to end." "It will end, Sydney," he tells her immediately. "We'll make sure that it does." When she hangs up the phone a minute later, her hand lingers briefly on the receiver.
The time goes by and she and Sark continue their dance, each playing the roles they have chosen for themselves. Now, these roles seem to embody a kind of comfortable respect, or perhaps even something verging on friendship. Most days, lately, she ends up working with him in some capacity, and Faber regularly dispatches them as a team to make arrangements on his behalf. His operation spans two continents now, and Sydney starts to wonder with each new assignment whether or not her covert presence will come to an end, and when Faber will fall. She's had to become more strategic in her dead drops these days, as their workload is increasing rapidly along with Faber's ambition. Unfortunately, he hasn't seen the need to send her to tend his American assets in person, for some reason preferring to keep her on the European side of the business. Nonetheless, she's started to wonder whether or not Faber trusts her any more than he used to. Her mind takes her back to these thoughts as she returns from Prague on a job given to her alone. Tonight Faber's sent her by herself, because it's only a matter of hours for her to make the flight and take the meeting and then head back again. She could easily have taken the train or driven herself, but he insisted she take a private flight instead. The assignment goes smoothly, easily, and she's back across the German border in the dark hours of the morning, her falsified documents making it easy for a Canadian diplomat named Shelley Crawford to breeze through without a fuss. It's early, not even dawn yet, but she's stopped questioning the hours Faber and his associates keep. Just after landing in Berlin, she glances at her cell phone and notices she's missed a call. The screen tells her the number is unknown, and it doesn't take her too long to guess who the call was from. Her father was expected to meet with her next week to debrief her on what they'd learned from the CIA's surveillance, but this call must mean the meeting has been moved up. She checks her watch - it's just after five thirty in the morning, and dawn will come soon. Protocol requires her to phone in five hours following such a call. She'll have to bide her time until then, and she feels a knot of worry form in her stomach. This has never happened before. She leaves the plane and makes her way to the parking lot where she left her car less than twenty-four hours ago. It's been a somewhat extravagant expense, keeping a vehicle of her own in such a large city, but it's on nights such as these that she's glad for it. Tram service and taxis can be sporadic this early in the day. Out of habit, she does a quick scan of the vehicle to be sure of its - and her own - security. She deposits her bag in the trunk and drives away without incident. Pulling out from the airport, she heads south on the Autobahn, accelerating fairly leisurely as the still-dark highway reveals only a moderate amount of traffic. After a few minutes, she futily attempts to stifle a yawn, and it occurs to her how little sleep she's had in the past day and night. She'll be glad to make her report to Faber and then head back to her apartment for a warm bath and a rest. The wind starts to pick up a little, and she shivers needlessly at the audible indication of the changing weather. It's the middle of November, and autumn is fading into winter. In a few minutes the road will curve to the southwest and then the south again and she'll leave the Autobahn to travel east along Bismarckstrasse, back towards the Potsdamer Platz and Faber's office. She wonders if he'll be there in person, or if she'll simply type her report then and there and leave a copy for him on his desk to review when he comes in. It's been harder to tell what he's going to do next, even on small details, and it unsettles her a little more each time she tries to predict such things. She changes lanes and glances in her mirror, breaking away from her thoughts. It's then that she notices the pair of headlights several car lengths behind her, following her into her lane. A minute later the same car is there, and is the same distance away. Might be nothing, She tells herself. Probably nothing. Although the road hasn't been busy, nor has she been alone by any means, and has even been passed by a few other drivers. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't feel nervous at all, but a nagging thought in the back of her mind takes her back to the small doubts she was just trying to stop worrying about. What if it's not nothing? Who is it?. On instinct she changes lanes again and glances back into the previous lane, and observes the same car mimic her movements once again. All right, she thinks. This isn't going to be an ordinary trip to the office. She's just within reach of an exit and even though it's not the one she was planning on taking, she takes it quickly, now travelling south towards Kaiserin-Augusta-Allee. Sure enough, as she pulls away from the exit the car's there behind her again. Sydney grips the steering wheel and speeds up a little. Now, that small knot of anxiety deepens and twists into worry and fear. Her mind takes her through a catalogue of suspicions, as she wonders who could have sent someone to follow her, and why. None of the options she can think of are appealing. Damn it. I shouldn't have let this happen. If she takes the turn on Kaiserin-Augusta she'll still be following a probable route for heading back to the office. Just perhaps a little faster than usual, she tells herself. Her pursuer matches her turn and this time she notices that the distance between them has decreased slightly. Sydney turns left again at the earliest chance, taking a smaller street east. This time when she looks in the mirror she sees the familiar pair of headlights, yet again decreasing the distance between them. Shit. Almost without thinking she reaches for her phone, fumbling to find the headset and slip it over her ear for easier communication. She needs help, she needs someone close, and she needs it now. Quickly, she dials the number before she has a chance to second-guess herself. Another turn to the right and she shifts her gears as she returns to a higher speed, waiting for someone to pick up. "Yes?" Sark's voice answers as clear as a bell, and there isn't time for her to wonder if she has woken or interrupted him. "It's me, Karen," she spits out, no time to make sure whether or not she needed to clarify with a name. "I just got in from Prague. I left the airport a few minutes ago. Right now I'm just north of Kaiserin-Augusta and I might have a tail on me, are you close?" She knows Sark lives to the south of where she is in the Charlottenburg area, theoretically only a few minutes away. She also knows she's putting an incredible amount of trust in his answer - too much, she thinks, given how little they've truly revealed to each other - but right now he's her closest option. There's a brief pause before he answers, long enough for her to glance over her shoulder and watch the headlights in her rear view shine a little brighter than they did before. The car's moving faster, approaching at speed. She turns right again, now travelling south. "Are you certain?" he asks. "Of course I'm certain," she nearly shouts back. She grips the steering wheel as she takes the corner and turns to the east along Kaiserin-Augusta. The tires screech just a little as she comes out of the left turn, and her pulse quickens further. "Where are you?" She can hear sounds of movement along with the question. "I just turned east," she says as she accelerates again, "and I'm heading towards Faber's office." She takes her bearings and realizes with a start that, while she's still on a plausible enough route to head towards the office, she's blocked to the south by the Spree river. "I might need to turn off and head north if I can't shake them," she tells him across the phone. "Whoever this is, they're following even closer and the bridge across the river is still a few minutes away." She manages to shift into a higher gear and presses her foot to the gas pedal, as hard and as fast as she can without spinning into another turn. Right now the roads are as clear as they'll ever be, which not only risks making her pursuer a little obvious but allows her a straight path ahead. When she glances back at her mirror the same pair of headlights is behind her, matching her route changes easily. Shit. She needs to get off this straightaway. "No, wait," she hears him respond. She can hear a bit of static and it sounds as though he's moved outside. He must be coming her way now. "Keep going, I think it'll be faster for me to get to you there." His voice is authoritative, purposeful. He's going to help. Her heart's in her throat as she swerves again, this time more abruptly than the last turn and at such a fast angle that her rear wheels spin and slide in a vain effort to keep the car steady. She pulls ahead of a car in the middle lane and adjusts the shift again and she's on her way, speeding as fast as she possibly can. She enjoys a moment of pleasure as she watches the car behind her stagger and swerve to catch her again, and the next time she notices him in her rear view mirror, he's at least a full block away. But the fear still stings at her and her firm grip on the steering wheel is one of the only things keeping her hands from trembling. Come on, Bristow, you've done this sort of thing before. "He's a little behind now but he'll catch up again," she tells Sark. "Where are you?" There hasn't been any sound in her earpiece besides a few scrapes and shuffles, and she guesses - hopes - that he's on the road now. "I'm coming towards you now, but I'm still a few minutes away," he tells her, and she curses inwardly in impatience. "Take the bridge south and take the first left onto Franklinstrasse. It'll distract them for a moment and I'll try to get to you before you get too far south." "Right," she answers quickly, and as impatient as she is, the bridge crossing can't come soon enough. The familiar pair of headlights is gaining on her once more. She finally makes it to the right turn and shifts abruptly as she swerves across two lanes of traffic to get to the bridge. "Where are you now?" She guesses Sark must have been coming from his place after all, which would put him a few minutes away from her, still. "Bundesallee, just crossing the Ku'damm now." She can hear noise in the background and guesses that he didn't stop very lawfully at that intersection. Her lungs contract and she takes in a deep breath almost involuntarily, focusing her senses on the road ahead. "Is he still there?" Her mind races as she glances back. "Yes, and he's getting closer." Another gear shift. "I'm coming up on the University now and I'm going to cut through and see if I can lose him." She congratulates herself on the snap decision, since it's a Sunday morning and it's unlikely many people will be there so early today. "Got it," he answers, as if cataloging her movements in his head. "See if you can wind through to just west of campus. I should intersect with you in another minute." Great. "Okay." She turns abruptly again, left this time along the Einsteinufer. She's skirting the northern edge of the campus and is starting to contemplate turning in to it altogether and winding through the parking lots and quadrangles regardless of where the roads are. At least, that's what crosses her mind until she hears the glass of her windshield puncture and break behind her. Startled, she ducks as low as she can, keeping the steering wheel steady and looks behind her. As she thought, her assailant has fired a shot at her, and she hears a second one fast behind it. Come on, Sark, where the hell are you… She swerves again, adrenaline rushing through her, and then swerves a second time. She's almost at the western edge of the campus, and soon there will be very little surrounding her other than railroad tracks and a few scattered buildings. Her gun is stashed in the glove compartment next to her, but she's not sure if she can reach it in time to make the next turn. Her pursuer is only a couple of car lengths behind her now, close enough to make a relatively precise shot. Just as she's turning left again onto the narrow Hertzallee, she catches a glimpse of another car approaching from the other direction. She's startled enough to almost run her car off the road in order to get out of the way, until she recognizes the car as Sark's. Sure enough, it's him, and no sooner has she recognized this fact then she sees him roll down the window and fire a single shot past her vehicle at her assailant. Sark hits his target - the front tire of the car behind her - and the car swerves away. This won't be enough, however, and Sark knows it. He makes no effort to slow his pace, and collides directly with the left bumper of the other car. The pursuing vehicle snaps back, spiraling and striking a nearby tree, and Sark brakes quickly, before backing up to get a clear shot at him once more. Sark's weapon extends from his window once again and fires two more shots, directly into the man's chest. Sydney's swerved back around behind Sark by now, in time to see the unknown attacker breathe his last gasp. Sark fires a fourth shot into the rear of the car, and Sydney knows he's aimed for the gas tank. She reverses, putting several more yards between herself and that car, and watches Sark do the same. If he shoots again, the whole works will be set on fire, and in a matter of minutes the vehicle won't be recognizable. Sydney watches as he turns to look back at her from his window, his weapon still at the ready and aimed at his earlier target. She nods, the only sign she needs to give him, and watches as he fires once more. For a few seconds she has a clear view of the flames that engulf the vehicle, and she feels her breath shake from her chest. And then, she's turning her car again, and driving away with Sark following her this time, just as the dim light of dawn begins to break.
At first she drives fast again, on impulse, but then slows down once she's farther away from the scene and convinces herself she can do so. After several minutes of driving south she eventually pulls off down an alley near the Yorckstrasse where the railway tracks end. When she finally shuts off the ignition she's shaking slightly as she leans back in her seat. One, two, and then three deep breaths, and she reaches for the door. She steps out of the car and shuts the door, watching Sark do the same. "Are you all right?" he asks as he exits his vehicle. He closes the door hard before walking over to her. He's still holding his weapon in his hand, but as he approaches her she can hear the click as he returns the safety lock. By the time he reaches her he's tucked it back into his holster. Sydney nods, still a little breathless. "Yeah, I'm okay," she answers, looking down at her clothes and checking for any wounds. "You're hurt," he notices, stepping close enough to reach out and place a hand on her arm. A bullet must have grazed her, and this is the first that she's noticed it. There's a tear cutting right through her jacket and the shirt beneath, and a red streak arcs across her skin. It's a mild flesh wound, nothing that won't mend. "It's fine," she answers, pressing her fingers to the spot just below her shoulder. "I'll be fine." She winces a little as the sting registers to her senses. And still, he's got his hand on her arm, his gaze trained on the wound and then on her face, as if still verifying her condition for himself. Sydney glances back at him, long enough to notice that his own breathing is still a little shaky. "What about you?" She lets her eyes travel quickly along his body, confirming that he hasn't been harmed. He follows her actions and comes to the same conclusion as she, that he wasn't injured. "Nothing," he confirms. Still, his hand rests lightly at her arm, and their gaze meets once more. It's been a long time since she's had to get herself out of a situation like this, and she's wrestling between gratitude to Sark for helping her, and frustration that she let herself get into such a problem in the first place. For the moment, she decides that gratitude is the better option, and can't help but feel impressed that the Sark in front of her now seems much more like the Sark she remembers. When he catches her gaze she doesn't falter or turn away, but holds his eye as his fingers loosen their grip just a little. "Thank you." Her voice is more calm now, her tone almost gentle. He pauses, the faintest bit of surprise evident in his expression. Clearly he wasn't expecting to be told this outright, which makes her all the more curious over his concern for her. She feels like every part of her is vibrating somehow, in that unique combination of fear and exhilaration followed by relief. He's close enough to her now that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, no small detail in the brisk fall air. A thousand thoughts dash through her mind and she can't catch hold of any of them. And so just then she's not sure what it is about that moment that makes her lean closer to him. Perhaps it's simply that she's coming down from the adrenaline rush that accompanies escape, or recovering from the relative embarrassment of asking him for help, and needing a sense of control again... Perhaps it's the style of his jacket, falling open to reveal the smooth dark sweater he wears that makes her wonder about the skin and muscle beneath... His cheek, pink from exertion and the chill in the air, and the slight roughness along his jawline that's just visible now in the early light of dawn... His hand, now rising away from her arm and making her suddenly eager for his touch... Whatever the reason, Sydney takes the chance and as she feels him starting to move away, she grasps his lapels only seconds before pressing her lips achingly against his. If her gratitude didn't catch him by surprise, she's certain that this does. Nonetheless, it takes only a few seconds for him to respond. He does so willingly, matching the urgency and intensity of her kiss with his own desire. His hands wrap around her waist and find their way underneath her jacket, and she's just starting to get used to the idea of what's going on when she finds the side of the car suddenly against her back. It's just as well, since the stability of her legs is gradually fading, and she welcomes the support. Sark's now about as close to her as he can be. Her lips open against the pressure of his, and as the roughness of his tongue slides against hers she feels warmth start to radiate in places she'd forgotten about. A heated pulse deepens within her as his fingers slip beneath her clothing and slide along the curve of her back. She plunders his lips and mouth in response, her own hands gripping his shoulders beneath his jacket collar. Her injury and the preceding chase are all but forgotten in her mind. Finally they part, gasping a little. She's not sure what to say, or if she should say anything, which is fine for now since he's the one who speaks first. The very idea of kissing him is enough for her to take in all at once, and the immediacy of their response to each other takes her by surprise. "If this is your idea..." he breathes, his lips still only a breath away from hers, "Of thanking me..." Her mouth starts to curve into a smile as she marvels at their extraordinary situation. Moments ago she feared for her very safety and within seconds they've made those memories virtually disappear. "And if it is?" she asks him, sudden playfulness barely evident in her voice. His face starts to mirror hers, a smile beginning to lighten his expression. Apparently it doesn't matter one way or the other to him what her reason is. This time he's the one to initiate the kiss, just as quickly and hungrily as she did before. He doesn't wait for any further cues from her about where or what or how far. Before she can think about any of those things he lets his lips travel - first along the edge of her jaw, then lower as he traces the curve of her neck. Her breath begins to leave her in shallow waves, and her fingers thread through the hair at the base of his neck. His fingers slide back up her torso, finding the buttons on her shirt and unfastening them swiftly. A trail of moist heat is gathering in the path of his mouth, making her shiver despite the growing perspiration on her skin. He slips his hands back underneath her clothing and she realizes now how completely she is losing herself here in his arms. "I don't…" she starts to say, stretching back as his lips travel farther down her torso and his hands continue their ministrations. Her legs are barely holding her now. "Not...in the open..." she manages. He murmurs a response against her skin, something she can't quite make out, but she feels it resonate through her and warm her from deep within her belly. Even as she breathes her request she recognizes its futility, since anyone who wanted to catch them like this might have found their satisfaction by now. It's not the visual repercussions that worry her, it's the control that she feels fading from her with every second that passes and every stroke of his tongue and lips against her skin and every touch of her fingers on his body. She feels his hands slipping underneath her jacket again, touching skin that should feel far more chilled, out here in the cool grey dawn. Her lip quivers, and her hands reach for him without any further encouragement. His lips find hers again, and the kiss holds no hesitation. Her voice doesn't belong to Karen Sorensen anymore, and she's not even sure it belongs to Sydney Bristow, and if she stays one more moment where she is right now she's not sure who she'll be able to hold responsible for her actions. And so it isn't her voice that interrupts them, at first. Mustering as much restraint as she can, she pulls away from him abruptly, turning her body out of his grasp and twisting her lips from his. One hand rests against the car, the other pulls her jacket closed. He stands slightly amazed, his expression a thrilled mixture of surprise at their coming together and disappointment over their separation. "I can't…Faber will be expecting me," she explains, the words tumbling awkwardly as she shakes her head and tries to focus. "I have to report back." She gestures towards the car, indicating the exchange she made only hours ago, the brief mission that was supposed to be the easiest night in the world. Her hand brushes across her forehead and she closes her eyes briefly, trying to make sense of what has just happened. He nods back, understanding. She's still considering what to say next, and she watches him adjust his own jacket and run his hands through his hair. He's considering something, too. "I'll go with you," he says resolutely. If he's at all surprised over any part of the events of the last hour, he doesn't reveal it now. Instead, he's focused again, returning his thoughts to rational order. She's already shaking her head. "This wasn't your assignment, if we go in together--" "If we go in together then it will be much easier to explain that I had to help you get rid of whoever was in pursuit of you just now," he says firmly, one arm gesturing at the road behind the buildings that surround them. He steps closer, looking into her eyes and leaving her no room for doubt. "I'm going with you," he repeats, and opens the passenger-side door beside her. "And I'll drive." * * * * * |
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