Airs, Waters, Places (1/4)
Jul. 1st, 2003 09:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaznettiThis is a test. I've never tried to post a long story on livejournal. I think that I can make this work, but please bear with me.
Title: Airs, Waters, Places
Author: Vanzetti
Feedback welcome: vanzetti @ populli.net
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: JJ, Bad Robot, ABC. I do not own their toys, and no one pays me to play with them.
Summary: No one was saying "no" to Jack that night. Someone probably should have.
Many, many thanks to Rez, for beta-reading, poking with a pointy stick, and reassuring me when Jack got too scary.
...Airs, waters, places, round our sex and reasons,
Are what we feed on as we make our choice.
We bring them back with promises to free them,
But as ourselves continually betray them:
They hear their deaths lamented in our voice...
(W. H. Auden, In Time of War IX, 1938)
Part 1: America
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just don't remember..."
The frustration in Will Tippin's voice made it clear that he too heard the echo of his earlier, drug induced amnesia.
"We fought, Francie and I. I mean, Allison Doren. I remember the blood, and then nothing. Darkness."
"You were found in a pool of your own blood, without a scratch on you..." Weiss took over the debriefing while Vaughn paced back and forth in the interrogation room, four long paces from one wall to the other, then back four paces more.
Jack turned away from the observation window. Will didn't know anything, and he had better uses for his time. Sloane's spy dead and Sydney missing: it might have been Derevko, trying to protect their daughter in her own twisted way, but that didn't quite fit. It was Sloane: Jack would stake his career on the belief that Sloane had his daughter. In fact, he was doing precisely that.
*
Next stop, Marshall. No one was saying no to Jack right now, not with Sydney missing, but Marshall's forehead was wrinkled. "You know, Agent Bristow--I mean, you do know this, I'm pretty sure you know this, but this was an SD-6 code, and you asked me to send it on an old SD-6 channel, and I was wondering--I mean, not really, it only occurred to me, but--"
Jack cut him off. "Was there any response?"
"Um... no. Not yet. I can keep sending it, but I don't think that--"
"Keep trying it."
Marshall followed him when he walked off; when he turned back to glare, the other man stopped. "I tried some other channels too," he blurted out. "Just in case. I mean, you don't have to answer this, because I know it isn't any of my business--"
"Exactly."
"--and see, I knew you were going to say that. OK, OK, Agent Bristow," Marshall held his hands up in front of himself. "But no one is responding."
"I see." Marshall wouldn't meet his eyes. If this conversation went on any longer one or the other of them might have to acknowledge that Bristow had asked Marshall to get a message to Arvin Sloane, and that Arvin wasn't answering. "Thank you," he said.
On to the next one.
*
Sark lay flat on his back on the cell bunk, showing no reaction as Jack approached. All right, he thought. If that was how Sark wanted to play it...
He stopped a foot away from the glass. "Where is she?"
He waited a full thirty seconds, letting the silence stretch out. There was no response.
"You're wasting my time, Sark."
At that, Sark sat up, leaning back against the wall. "Agent Bristow," he acknowledged. "I have no control over how you choose to spend your time."
"Don't toy with me. Where is she?"
"How can I help you when you insist on imprecision?"
"You know who I'm talking about." He watched Sark carefully: he needed something he could use against the younger man. Sark's posture remained relaxed, his hands loose in his lap and his head tilted up toward Jack.
"Humor me."
"We can always continue this conversation elsewhere. I'm sure you're familiar with the effects of sodium penthotal."
Sark smiled at him. "Drugs? How vulgar. But if it will satisfy you, I have no idea where Irina Derevko is."
"What makes you think I was asking about Derevko?" He felt a moment of satisfaction: the threat had worked. He knew that Sark was hiding something.
"Really?" His voice seemed faintly mocking. "Have you lost track of Sydney, then?"
His daughter's name on this man's lips caught him off-guard, wiping away the small satisfaction. Jack forced himself to relax: letting Sark see the violence in him would be counter-productive. He concentrated on keeping his hands loose at his sides and his posture unchanged, so engrossed that he very nearly missed Sark's next comment.
"Unless there's someone else you've misplaced?" Just the slightest edge to the mockery, now: Jack's long silence had disturbed Sark for some reason. It was, Jack suddenly guessed, costing Sark nearly as much to maintain his facade as it was costing him. What was Sark hiding? Whatever it was, it was important.
He ran through a list of possibilities, followed an instinct. "We found your spy."
Now, that was interesting. Only for a fraction of a second, all expression left Sark's face. He recovered quickly, saying, "An unavoidable risk with undercover agents, as I'm sure you know." But there was a change, something new in his eyes. If Jack had to give it a name, he would have called it fear.
That was it: Sark's weakness. Jack pushed harder. "She's dead." He knew what it took for a man to will his emotions off his face, to stifle any human response; he conceded within himself a flicker of admiration for Sark's effort, but pressed on while the other man would still be vulnerable. "Where is my daughter?"
"I don't know," Sark answered. "But I know how to find out." He paused. "Sloane assembled Il Dire in Mexico City, didn't he? Now he has activated it." The smile was back on his face, his mask perfect again. "Who would have thought that Arvin Sloane's madness would bear fruit? The CIA will never find him, you know."
"But you can?"
"You would have to release me first." Sark sounded almost apologetic as he stated his terms.
"Did you learn that tactic from Derevko?"
"There is a limit to what I can accomplish from a cell. But if you'd prefer to leave Sydney in Sloane's care..." he let his voice trail off and gave a little shrug.
"I would prefer," Jack said, "not to be taken for a fool." He turned on his heel and left the room. When he checked the monitors in the guardroom he saw that Sark had lain down and was staring at nothing.
*
Kendall's sympathy was going to drive Jack to violence. He clenched his teeth and hoped that the other man was not going to slap him on the back in some gesture of solidarity. "I can't imagine how you must be feeling, Jack,"
"No," Jack answered, biting off every word. "You can't. I need Sark's information."
"If I say no, are you going to go ahead and do this one your own?"
Jack stared at him.
"What about Michael Vaughn? He's going to want to know what you're planning."
"I'll handle Vaughn," Jack told him.
*
Somewhere in the course of his insalubrious career, Jack reflected an hour later, Sark had developed an impressive ability to resist interrogation. He allowed Vaughn another fifteen minutes with the prisoner, then called him out of the room and went in himself.
"Oh, look," Sark said. His voice was thick. "It's the good cop." He ran his tongue over his teeth as if to check that they were all still there.
"Tell me where Sloane is, and all this will end."
"But I'm only starting to enjoy myself."
"The bones in your hand should be set immediately, to avoid the risk of permanent damage."
"Thank you for your advice."
"Michael Vaughn is an impatient man."
Sark grimaced. "Don't insult my intelligence, Agent Bristow. Vaughn is doing exactly what you instructed him to do." He swallowed. "Did you learn that tactic from Derevko?"
"Who was Allison Doren?
It took Sark a little longer to control his face, this time. "No one."
Jack leaned over him, inches away from the other man. "You must have known what would happen to her. Did you really believe you could get her out alive?" The words echoed unpleasantly in Jack's head, but he pushed on: Sark's weakness was clear in the anger in his eyes and the firm set of his chin. "You must have known that Derevko and Sloane would give you up, would sacrifice her. Are you really still loyal to them?"
"One learns to tolerate betrayal, if one is to remain in Irina Derevko's company."
"And Arvin Sloane?"
Had Sark not been strapped down, Jack suspected he would have shrugged. That anger wasn't directed at Sloane, then, or Derevko or even Jack. He watched Sark's eyes revert to clear, cold blue, let the other man believe that the worst was over. Then he leaned in and whispered in Sark's ear.
"If you tell me how to find Sloane, I'll let Vaughn come back in here." That was satisfying. Jack had become a connoisseur of self-loathing; it was a pleasure to be able to recognize the same emotion on Sark's young face. "You'd prefer that. Something to distract you from the real pain, isn't that right?"
If nothing else, it was good to know that someone else was suffering. He watched Sark get himself back under control. Not that it mattered: he must have known what Jack had seen. Just a second before he thought Sark would be able to speak, he stepped back. "No answer, Sark?" he asked. "Then I'll just have to leave you here to think about it."
As he closed the door behind him he checked his watch. 4:03 AM. Good. Vaughn was waiting in the observation room. "Do you want me to..."
"No," he said. The relief on Vaughn's face was almost amusing. "But could you..." he hesitated. "Would you go back to Sydney's apartment, Michael? Our teams might have missed a clue, a sign, something."
Vaughn straightened. "Of course," he said. He reached the far end of the corridor before turning back. "We'll find her, Jack. We will."
Jack nodded. Well. Someone would.
Kendall's voice disturbed him. "You shouldn't shut him out."
Jack wondered how much Kendall had heard, then decided it didn't matter. "I don't want to argue with him."
"Or with me. I'm only letting you do this because I can't figure out how to stop you."
To Jack's practiced eye, the assistant director looked worried. "Do you have the paperwork ready?"
"I want to put a tracer on you."
"I'll just take it out."
"What if you need backup, Jack? Sark is a very dangerous man. What makes you think that he's not going to betray you or try to kill you, first chance he gets?
"I expect him to."
"Then why go ahead with this?"
"Because Sark is our best link to Sloane and Derevko."
Kendall looked like he was swallowing some kind of reply. Jack guessed that it had something to do with Sydney, and held out his hand for the paperwork. "It's all in order," Kendall said. "Prisoner transfer to Camp Harris, in your custody. I expect you to make sure that Sark makes it there in the end."
Jack didn't bother answering.
*
Silence from Marshall was even more disconcerting than the constant babbling, Jack discovered. "You can double-check this with Kendall."
"That's OK, Agent Bristow. Just remember that you need to release the antidote every eight hours. Um, unless you want him to die. I guess."
Thanking Marshall twice in the same night would be ridiculous. Jack picked up the transmitter and the implants, hearing Marshall's whispered "Good luck," following him out the door.
*
Jack paused at the observation window: Sark lay still in the chair, apparently asleep. A doctor had been in to splint his hand and clean up the other obvious injuries, but Jack was on his own when it came to inserting the implants. Poison and an antidote, a simple enough means of controlling the other man.
The events of the night were beginning to tell on Sark: despite his relaxed posture his mouth was a thin, tense line. It was all too tempting, Jack knew, to consider anyone of his age a boy, to ignore the ruthless self-control, the kills confirmed and suspected, the lifetime's experience in betrayal and deception. But Sark's youth was just one more lie. He would not be taken in by it.
Sark's eyes opened as soon as Jack entered the room. He kept his eyes on Jack's face while Jack inserted the implant with the poison and then the antidote into his arm. If he was afraid, he was covering it well. He raised an eyebrow as Jack began to unstrap him from the chair and nodded at Jack's impatient, "Can you stand? Good," Jack said. "Get up." He offered no explanations and Sark asked no questions, although he did wince when Jack cuffed his hands behind his back. The right cuff barely fit over the splint: Jack would have to figure out a better way to keep Sark in line.
It was 5:38 AM. The night shift workers were starting to think about going home, and even Dixon and Vaughn wouldn't be in before 6. Jack kept his attention on his prisoner as they walked through the building. He did not permit himself to focus on the familiar offices and corridors and faces or to wonder when he might be back. He handed the paperwork to one more guard and added his signature to one more document. "Transfer to Camp Harris," he explained. There were no questions.
He put Sark into the passenger seat of his car and then it was just one more checkpoint at the entrance to the garage. Sark was leaning forward against the seatbelt to keep the weight off his broken hand. It looked uncomfortable.
Out on the road, his cellphone rang. Keeping one eye on Sark and another on the traffic, he flipped it open. "Bristow," he said.
"Jack." It was Vaughn, and Jack could tell from his voice that he hadn't slept. "I'm in Sydney's apartment. I think I've found something."
"Tell me."
"I found traces of packing material in the bathroom. I think it will match the packing material we found left behind in Mexico City."
"And it isn't from Sydney?"
"Neither of us went into the room where the Rambaldi device was assembled."
"You think Sloane was there."
Vaughn was quiet for a moment. "Or Irina Derevko."
"I'm in my car. I'll be right over." He should have done something about Arvin Sloane years ago, and to hell with the CIA and SD-6 and Rambaldi and his crazy devices. Sloane and his promises and his false concern and...
"This isn't the way to Sydney's apartment," Sark observed. Jack didn't respond; he could have lived without the reminder that Sark knew his daughter's address. About a minute later, Sark continued, "It isn't the road to Camp Harris, either." He could feel the younger man's eyes on him, but didn't allow himself to react. "What exactly was on those papers, Agent Bristow?"
"Let me explain how this will work," Jack said, keeping his voice toneless. "You will do what I tell you. You will put me in contact with Sloane, and you will help me find my daughter. If you do not do what I tell you, I will kill you. If Sloane does not know where Sydney is, I will kill you. Is that clear?"
"Is there any point at all to my asking what I'm supposed to get out of this relationship?"
"Don't test me, Sark. Where is Sloane?"
When he glanced over, he could see Sark calculating something: his odds of survival, perhaps. He leaned forward and slightly away. "These will have to come off."
"No."
"Agent Bristow, we wouldn't be here if you didn't need my information. I agree. I will help you find Sloane, you have my word. Now take the handcuffs off."
"I'm a desperate man, Sark, not a stupid one."
Sark produced a dramatic sigh. "You've told me again and again not to toy with you, Agent Bristow. And I won't. But if you tie my hands," Sark's mouth twitched at his own joke, "you do limit my ability to help you."
"We've identified three planes which took off from Mexico City on Sloane's orders: one to Lima, one to Hong Kong and one to Athens. He wasn't on any of them. Why?"
In reply, Sark rattled his handcuffs.
"What does Sloane want, Sark?"
Jack didn't expect Sark to answer. "For a madman, Sloane is relatively easy to predict. Why does he do anything?"
"Rambaldi." The word was like a curse. "Do you believe that Sloane is insane?"
Sark was staring absently at the road ahead of them, his eyebrows raised. "I certainly hope so, Agent Bristow. Because the alternative--that Sloane knows exactly what he's doing--is extremely disturbing."
Slightly surprised to find himself in agreement with his prisoner, Jack began to drive a little faster.
*
Sark shook his head when they arrived at the airfield. "No. Don't you understand? Sloane will never let the CIA get close to him."
"You aren't in a position to make decisions, Sark."
"If you aren't going to accept my advice, you might as well have left me in custody."
"Three planes. Which one do we follow?"
"Will you believe what I tell you?"
"You told us how to find him in Mexico City."
"Under duress, as I'm sure you recall." Jack raised an eyebrow just a fraction and saw what might have been amusement on Sark's face. "Point taken," Sark said.
"It's possible that you enjoyed working for Sloane," Jack said. He watched Sark watch him as he reached into the back seat of the car and brought out a manila folder. "Turn around," Jack told him, and Sark twisted in his seat so that Jack could undo the handcuffs. When Sark turned back, flexing his uninjured hand carefully to get the blood flowing again, Jack handed him the folder. "This is the preliminary report on Allison Doren's death. You will see that none of her wounds were fatal: she bled to death. If Agent Vaughn is correct and Sloane was in Sydney's apartment, Allison was probably still alive when he left."
Sark flipped the pages awkwardly with his left hand. Medical reports could be forged, as Jack knew all too well. Sark would know that too, would consider how convenient this report was for Jack. But the utter lack of expression on his face told Jack everything he needed to know. Sark closed the file, clutching it and then forcing his fingers to relax. "Athens. He's going to Athens." His voice was almost normal.
End 1/4
Go on to Part 2
I have backdated parts 2-4, which I hope will keep them from clogging your friends pages. I'm about to go file them in my memories section, as well.
Title: Airs, Waters, Places
Author: Vanzetti
Feedback welcome: vanzetti @ populli.net
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: JJ, Bad Robot, ABC. I do not own their toys, and no one pays me to play with them.
Summary: No one was saying "no" to Jack that night. Someone probably should have.
Many, many thanks to Rez, for beta-reading, poking with a pointy stick, and reassuring me when Jack got too scary.
...Airs, waters, places, round our sex and reasons,
Are what we feed on as we make our choice.
We bring them back with promises to free them,
But as ourselves continually betray them:
They hear their deaths lamented in our voice...
(W. H. Auden, In Time of War IX, 1938)
Part 1: America
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just don't remember..."
The frustration in Will Tippin's voice made it clear that he too heard the echo of his earlier, drug induced amnesia.
"We fought, Francie and I. I mean, Allison Doren. I remember the blood, and then nothing. Darkness."
"You were found in a pool of your own blood, without a scratch on you..." Weiss took over the debriefing while Vaughn paced back and forth in the interrogation room, four long paces from one wall to the other, then back four paces more.
Jack turned away from the observation window. Will didn't know anything, and he had better uses for his time. Sloane's spy dead and Sydney missing: it might have been Derevko, trying to protect their daughter in her own twisted way, but that didn't quite fit. It was Sloane: Jack would stake his career on the belief that Sloane had his daughter. In fact, he was doing precisely that.
*
Next stop, Marshall. No one was saying no to Jack right now, not with Sydney missing, but Marshall's forehead was wrinkled. "You know, Agent Bristow--I mean, you do know this, I'm pretty sure you know this, but this was an SD-6 code, and you asked me to send it on an old SD-6 channel, and I was wondering--I mean, not really, it only occurred to me, but--"
Jack cut him off. "Was there any response?"
"Um... no. Not yet. I can keep sending it, but I don't think that--"
"Keep trying it."
Marshall followed him when he walked off; when he turned back to glare, the other man stopped. "I tried some other channels too," he blurted out. "Just in case. I mean, you don't have to answer this, because I know it isn't any of my business--"
"Exactly."
"--and see, I knew you were going to say that. OK, OK, Agent Bristow," Marshall held his hands up in front of himself. "But no one is responding."
"I see." Marshall wouldn't meet his eyes. If this conversation went on any longer one or the other of them might have to acknowledge that Bristow had asked Marshall to get a message to Arvin Sloane, and that Arvin wasn't answering. "Thank you," he said.
On to the next one.
*
Sark lay flat on his back on the cell bunk, showing no reaction as Jack approached. All right, he thought. If that was how Sark wanted to play it...
He stopped a foot away from the glass. "Where is she?"
He waited a full thirty seconds, letting the silence stretch out. There was no response.
"You're wasting my time, Sark."
At that, Sark sat up, leaning back against the wall. "Agent Bristow," he acknowledged. "I have no control over how you choose to spend your time."
"Don't toy with me. Where is she?"
"How can I help you when you insist on imprecision?"
"You know who I'm talking about." He watched Sark carefully: he needed something he could use against the younger man. Sark's posture remained relaxed, his hands loose in his lap and his head tilted up toward Jack.
"Humor me."
"We can always continue this conversation elsewhere. I'm sure you're familiar with the effects of sodium penthotal."
Sark smiled at him. "Drugs? How vulgar. But if it will satisfy you, I have no idea where Irina Derevko is."
"What makes you think I was asking about Derevko?" He felt a moment of satisfaction: the threat had worked. He knew that Sark was hiding something.
"Really?" His voice seemed faintly mocking. "Have you lost track of Sydney, then?"
His daughter's name on this man's lips caught him off-guard, wiping away the small satisfaction. Jack forced himself to relax: letting Sark see the violence in him would be counter-productive. He concentrated on keeping his hands loose at his sides and his posture unchanged, so engrossed that he very nearly missed Sark's next comment.
"Unless there's someone else you've misplaced?" Just the slightest edge to the mockery, now: Jack's long silence had disturbed Sark for some reason. It was, Jack suddenly guessed, costing Sark nearly as much to maintain his facade as it was costing him. What was Sark hiding? Whatever it was, it was important.
He ran through a list of possibilities, followed an instinct. "We found your spy."
Now, that was interesting. Only for a fraction of a second, all expression left Sark's face. He recovered quickly, saying, "An unavoidable risk with undercover agents, as I'm sure you know." But there was a change, something new in his eyes. If Jack had to give it a name, he would have called it fear.
That was it: Sark's weakness. Jack pushed harder. "She's dead." He knew what it took for a man to will his emotions off his face, to stifle any human response; he conceded within himself a flicker of admiration for Sark's effort, but pressed on while the other man would still be vulnerable. "Where is my daughter?"
"I don't know," Sark answered. "But I know how to find out." He paused. "Sloane assembled Il Dire in Mexico City, didn't he? Now he has activated it." The smile was back on his face, his mask perfect again. "Who would have thought that Arvin Sloane's madness would bear fruit? The CIA will never find him, you know."
"But you can?"
"You would have to release me first." Sark sounded almost apologetic as he stated his terms.
"Did you learn that tactic from Derevko?"
"There is a limit to what I can accomplish from a cell. But if you'd prefer to leave Sydney in Sloane's care..." he let his voice trail off and gave a little shrug.
"I would prefer," Jack said, "not to be taken for a fool." He turned on his heel and left the room. When he checked the monitors in the guardroom he saw that Sark had lain down and was staring at nothing.
*
Kendall's sympathy was going to drive Jack to violence. He clenched his teeth and hoped that the other man was not going to slap him on the back in some gesture of solidarity. "I can't imagine how you must be feeling, Jack,"
"No," Jack answered, biting off every word. "You can't. I need Sark's information."
"If I say no, are you going to go ahead and do this one your own?"
Jack stared at him.
"What about Michael Vaughn? He's going to want to know what you're planning."
"I'll handle Vaughn," Jack told him.
*
Somewhere in the course of his insalubrious career, Jack reflected an hour later, Sark had developed an impressive ability to resist interrogation. He allowed Vaughn another fifteen minutes with the prisoner, then called him out of the room and went in himself.
"Oh, look," Sark said. His voice was thick. "It's the good cop." He ran his tongue over his teeth as if to check that they were all still there.
"Tell me where Sloane is, and all this will end."
"But I'm only starting to enjoy myself."
"The bones in your hand should be set immediately, to avoid the risk of permanent damage."
"Thank you for your advice."
"Michael Vaughn is an impatient man."
Sark grimaced. "Don't insult my intelligence, Agent Bristow. Vaughn is doing exactly what you instructed him to do." He swallowed. "Did you learn that tactic from Derevko?"
"Who was Allison Doren?
It took Sark a little longer to control his face, this time. "No one."
Jack leaned over him, inches away from the other man. "You must have known what would happen to her. Did you really believe you could get her out alive?" The words echoed unpleasantly in Jack's head, but he pushed on: Sark's weakness was clear in the anger in his eyes and the firm set of his chin. "You must have known that Derevko and Sloane would give you up, would sacrifice her. Are you really still loyal to them?"
"One learns to tolerate betrayal, if one is to remain in Irina Derevko's company."
"And Arvin Sloane?"
Had Sark not been strapped down, Jack suspected he would have shrugged. That anger wasn't directed at Sloane, then, or Derevko or even Jack. He watched Sark's eyes revert to clear, cold blue, let the other man believe that the worst was over. Then he leaned in and whispered in Sark's ear.
"If you tell me how to find Sloane, I'll let Vaughn come back in here." That was satisfying. Jack had become a connoisseur of self-loathing; it was a pleasure to be able to recognize the same emotion on Sark's young face. "You'd prefer that. Something to distract you from the real pain, isn't that right?"
If nothing else, it was good to know that someone else was suffering. He watched Sark get himself back under control. Not that it mattered: he must have known what Jack had seen. Just a second before he thought Sark would be able to speak, he stepped back. "No answer, Sark?" he asked. "Then I'll just have to leave you here to think about it."
As he closed the door behind him he checked his watch. 4:03 AM. Good. Vaughn was waiting in the observation room. "Do you want me to..."
"No," he said. The relief on Vaughn's face was almost amusing. "But could you..." he hesitated. "Would you go back to Sydney's apartment, Michael? Our teams might have missed a clue, a sign, something."
Vaughn straightened. "Of course," he said. He reached the far end of the corridor before turning back. "We'll find her, Jack. We will."
Jack nodded. Well. Someone would.
Kendall's voice disturbed him. "You shouldn't shut him out."
Jack wondered how much Kendall had heard, then decided it didn't matter. "I don't want to argue with him."
"Or with me. I'm only letting you do this because I can't figure out how to stop you."
To Jack's practiced eye, the assistant director looked worried. "Do you have the paperwork ready?"
"I want to put a tracer on you."
"I'll just take it out."
"What if you need backup, Jack? Sark is a very dangerous man. What makes you think that he's not going to betray you or try to kill you, first chance he gets?
"I expect him to."
"Then why go ahead with this?"
"Because Sark is our best link to Sloane and Derevko."
Kendall looked like he was swallowing some kind of reply. Jack guessed that it had something to do with Sydney, and held out his hand for the paperwork. "It's all in order," Kendall said. "Prisoner transfer to Camp Harris, in your custody. I expect you to make sure that Sark makes it there in the end."
Jack didn't bother answering.
*
Silence from Marshall was even more disconcerting than the constant babbling, Jack discovered. "You can double-check this with Kendall."
"That's OK, Agent Bristow. Just remember that you need to release the antidote every eight hours. Um, unless you want him to die. I guess."
Thanking Marshall twice in the same night would be ridiculous. Jack picked up the transmitter and the implants, hearing Marshall's whispered "Good luck," following him out the door.
*
Jack paused at the observation window: Sark lay still in the chair, apparently asleep. A doctor had been in to splint his hand and clean up the other obvious injuries, but Jack was on his own when it came to inserting the implants. Poison and an antidote, a simple enough means of controlling the other man.
The events of the night were beginning to tell on Sark: despite his relaxed posture his mouth was a thin, tense line. It was all too tempting, Jack knew, to consider anyone of his age a boy, to ignore the ruthless self-control, the kills confirmed and suspected, the lifetime's experience in betrayal and deception. But Sark's youth was just one more lie. He would not be taken in by it.
Sark's eyes opened as soon as Jack entered the room. He kept his eyes on Jack's face while Jack inserted the implant with the poison and then the antidote into his arm. If he was afraid, he was covering it well. He raised an eyebrow as Jack began to unstrap him from the chair and nodded at Jack's impatient, "Can you stand? Good," Jack said. "Get up." He offered no explanations and Sark asked no questions, although he did wince when Jack cuffed his hands behind his back. The right cuff barely fit over the splint: Jack would have to figure out a better way to keep Sark in line.
It was 5:38 AM. The night shift workers were starting to think about going home, and even Dixon and Vaughn wouldn't be in before 6. Jack kept his attention on his prisoner as they walked through the building. He did not permit himself to focus on the familiar offices and corridors and faces or to wonder when he might be back. He handed the paperwork to one more guard and added his signature to one more document. "Transfer to Camp Harris," he explained. There were no questions.
He put Sark into the passenger seat of his car and then it was just one more checkpoint at the entrance to the garage. Sark was leaning forward against the seatbelt to keep the weight off his broken hand. It looked uncomfortable.
Out on the road, his cellphone rang. Keeping one eye on Sark and another on the traffic, he flipped it open. "Bristow," he said.
"Jack." It was Vaughn, and Jack could tell from his voice that he hadn't slept. "I'm in Sydney's apartment. I think I've found something."
"Tell me."
"I found traces of packing material in the bathroom. I think it will match the packing material we found left behind in Mexico City."
"And it isn't from Sydney?"
"Neither of us went into the room where the Rambaldi device was assembled."
"You think Sloane was there."
Vaughn was quiet for a moment. "Or Irina Derevko."
"I'm in my car. I'll be right over." He should have done something about Arvin Sloane years ago, and to hell with the CIA and SD-6 and Rambaldi and his crazy devices. Sloane and his promises and his false concern and...
"This isn't the way to Sydney's apartment," Sark observed. Jack didn't respond; he could have lived without the reminder that Sark knew his daughter's address. About a minute later, Sark continued, "It isn't the road to Camp Harris, either." He could feel the younger man's eyes on him, but didn't allow himself to react. "What exactly was on those papers, Agent Bristow?"
"Let me explain how this will work," Jack said, keeping his voice toneless. "You will do what I tell you. You will put me in contact with Sloane, and you will help me find my daughter. If you do not do what I tell you, I will kill you. If Sloane does not know where Sydney is, I will kill you. Is that clear?"
"Is there any point at all to my asking what I'm supposed to get out of this relationship?"
"Don't test me, Sark. Where is Sloane?"
When he glanced over, he could see Sark calculating something: his odds of survival, perhaps. He leaned forward and slightly away. "These will have to come off."
"No."
"Agent Bristow, we wouldn't be here if you didn't need my information. I agree. I will help you find Sloane, you have my word. Now take the handcuffs off."
"I'm a desperate man, Sark, not a stupid one."
Sark produced a dramatic sigh. "You've told me again and again not to toy with you, Agent Bristow. And I won't. But if you tie my hands," Sark's mouth twitched at his own joke, "you do limit my ability to help you."
"We've identified three planes which took off from Mexico City on Sloane's orders: one to Lima, one to Hong Kong and one to Athens. He wasn't on any of them. Why?"
In reply, Sark rattled his handcuffs.
"What does Sloane want, Sark?"
Jack didn't expect Sark to answer. "For a madman, Sloane is relatively easy to predict. Why does he do anything?"
"Rambaldi." The word was like a curse. "Do you believe that Sloane is insane?"
Sark was staring absently at the road ahead of them, his eyebrows raised. "I certainly hope so, Agent Bristow. Because the alternative--that Sloane knows exactly what he's doing--is extremely disturbing."
Slightly surprised to find himself in agreement with his prisoner, Jack began to drive a little faster.
*
Sark shook his head when they arrived at the airfield. "No. Don't you understand? Sloane will never let the CIA get close to him."
"You aren't in a position to make decisions, Sark."
"If you aren't going to accept my advice, you might as well have left me in custody."
"Three planes. Which one do we follow?"
"Will you believe what I tell you?"
"You told us how to find him in Mexico City."
"Under duress, as I'm sure you recall." Jack raised an eyebrow just a fraction and saw what might have been amusement on Sark's face. "Point taken," Sark said.
"It's possible that you enjoyed working for Sloane," Jack said. He watched Sark watch him as he reached into the back seat of the car and brought out a manila folder. "Turn around," Jack told him, and Sark twisted in his seat so that Jack could undo the handcuffs. When Sark turned back, flexing his uninjured hand carefully to get the blood flowing again, Jack handed him the folder. "This is the preliminary report on Allison Doren's death. You will see that none of her wounds were fatal: she bled to death. If Agent Vaughn is correct and Sloane was in Sydney's apartment, Allison was probably still alive when he left."
Sark flipped the pages awkwardly with his left hand. Medical reports could be forged, as Jack knew all too well. Sark would know that too, would consider how convenient this report was for Jack. But the utter lack of expression on his face told Jack everything he needed to know. Sark closed the file, clutching it and then forcing his fingers to relax. "Athens. He's going to Athens." His voice was almost normal.
End 1/4
Go on to Part 2
I have backdated parts 2-4, which I hope will keep them from clogging your friends pages. I'm about to go file them in my memories section, as well.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Airs, Waters, Places
Date: 2003-07-01 03:23 pm (UTC)It also manages to deal with the The Telling and its freako ending in an intelligent manner. No small feat, that.
Fantastic experiment, all the links worked, oh hell, just thanks for this.
Re: Airs, Waters, Places
Date: 2003-07-01 03:36 pm (UTC)That's rather funny. Because after I read Byzantium I spent a day or so wondering why I should ever bother to write again, because that story was so much better than anything I could come up with.
So the fact that you liked this means a lot. Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2003-07-01 04:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-07-02 12:38 am (UTC)That's just me--I'm terrible at description. I have to give the readers a sense of the place or person in a couple of words before moving on to action of some kind. And I tend to see characterization through dialogue and action, rather than in abstract.
Of course, for a long time I only wrote tragic dialogue: two characters in the middle of the stage, talking to each other. I'm trying to expand to scenes with three people talking.
And thank you for reading! It means a lot, when someone like you takes a risk and reads something I've written.
broken
Date: 2003-07-01 05:20 pm (UTC)I will read the story in a few minutes...
Re: broken
Date: 2003-07-02 12:34 am (UTC)I won't be online much this morning (again--the 8 hour time difference is a pain), due to errand-running. {{{{{{{{{{aceofkittens}}}}}}}}}}
Motion and emotion
Date: 2003-07-01 05:51 pm (UTC)We have a freaking plot. A tight, convincing, propulsive, stands-up-on-its-own-two-legs-and-kicks-ass plot.
Honestly, Vanzetti. Don't you think that's overkill, sort of?
Oh, and Jack? Words fail. Yes, they do.
Re: Motion and emotion
Date: 2003-07-02 12:40 am (UTC)And hey, this would never have happened without you. So thank you, and thank you again.
Re: Motion and emotion
Date: 2003-07-02 01:17 am (UTC)I despair, sometimes. Is it actually possible to teach oneself to plot? I ought to know how to do this, I've done enough lit-crit. But seeing the finished product by another writer, and producing a finished product oneself--not the same.
And about my comment, above? I meant "evocation," of course, not "invocation." Grrr.
Re: Motion and emotion
Date: 2003-07-02 05:12 am (UTC)I honestly have no idea. I just wind the characters up and watch them go, or push them around the chessboard a bit to see what happens. I suspect that travel serves as a substitute for plot in some of my fics (the principle seems to be "Send them somewhere new--something is bound to happen!"). I'm sure having Aristotle's Poetics beaten into my head in grad school helps in some way (character! it's all about character!), because it's certainly true that all I ever do is write (early) tragic dialogue. But I don't really know how.
And having read drafts of some of your stories, I think you're being over-modest. I saw quite a lot of plot in "In Tenebris."
no subject
Date: 2003-07-08 07:37 am (UTC)Hot. DAMN. That was good. The characterizations and the dialogue were just so superb...quite seriously, I've a feeling I might find the season premiere a bit lacking, after this. You handled the interaction beteween Jack, Irina, and Sark just beautifully. Bravo.
no subject
Date: 2003-07-22 03:41 pm (UTC)