alternates

Sydney hit him as hard as she could. He fell back into his chair and glared.

"You can't have it," she taunted him. "It's mine."

"I was just looking," he whined. "I didn't hurt it."

"Mom!"

Laura Bristow looked up from rummaging through the refrigerator. "Sydney, quit hitting your brother. Alex, sit back down and eat your breakfast and leave your sister's things alone. I have a department meeting I can't be late for today."

"You heard her," Sydney said triumphantly.

Alex Bristow shoved the antique music box across the kitchen table at his older sister. "Fine, I don't care about that stupid old thing anyway."

Jack walked into the kitchen, absently trying to get his tie straight.

"Jack, why did we have children?" Laura asked. She walked over and deftly fixed her husband's tie. He bent and kissed her lips.

"Temporary insanity."

"Twice?"

"It's like malaria."

"I'm going to be late tonight, can you get Arvin to let you go early and pick up Sydney at school? She has her piano lesson today."

Jack shrugged. "I don't see why not, we're bankers, we can keep banker's hours for once." He smiled at his beautiful wife, glad once again he'd turned down the CIA recruiters when they'd approached him in college.

His son snarled at his daughter. "Hey, don't hit me! Mom said—"

"Mom said, Mom said, you're such a baby, Sparky," Sydney crowed.

Alex retaliated for her use of the hated nickname by dumping his bowl of cereal and milk into Sydney's music box and then took off as Sydney screamed, "I'm going to kill you, Alex!" and tore after him.

Of course, being a spy would probably have been quieter.


He stared at the photograph Sloane had displayed on the monitors before every seat at the table and caught his breath. My God, she was lovely.

"Who is she?"

"Sydney Derevkova," Sloane said. He looked down the table at his second in command. Jack Bristow had gone white. The hand resting on the table was curled into a fist. Sark looked between them. He'd never seen Bristow show even that much emotion before.

Sloane's mouth turned down and something like pity sounded in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

"Arvin—"

"Perhaps it would be better if I finished briefing Agents Sark and Dixon without you," Sloane said. "I know how hard this must be for you."

Bristow looked at the still photo lifted from a security tape in Singapore. The girl was utterly lovely, even aiming a gun at Quan Li. Moments later she'd pulled the trigger.

Bristow nodded and rose from his seat. Once he'd left the room, Sloane turned back to Sark and his partner Marcus Dixon and explained, "Jack's wife and six year old daughter disappeared twenty years ago. It turned out his wife had been a KGB mole; when she was recalled, she took their child with her."

"And this woman in Singapore?" Marcus asked. "It's confirmed she's Agent Bristow's daughter?"

Sloane nodded.

"I knew 'Laura'—Jack's wife. Her real name was Irina Derevko and their daughter is very like her."

"This must be killing him," Marcus commented.

Sark looked at the picture again.

"So what's the mission?" He was already thinking about meeting with his CIA handler and relaying this information.

"You and Dixon will proceed to Siberia. We believe a music box created by Rambaldi has been hidden there. Unfortunately, the same information has been found by our opposition and you may encounter Ms. Derevkova during your mission."

Sark didn't find that all too bad.

"Just remember," Sloane said. "Derevkova will kill you if she gets a chance."


Sark braked the limo to a shuddering halt as the decoy shot out from under the overpass ahead of them, the heavy thrum of the helicopter echoing against the concrete. He swung around, bringing his arm and the pistol in it over the seat back and shot the two guards seated on either side of Irina.

It was over almost before it began, the two gunshots making his ears ring in the close confines of the limo. The sharp smell of cordite caught at the back of his throat.

Irina flinched.

Sark stared at her, kept the gun aimed at her.

"Sark—"

"Do you have the manuscript?" he demanded quietly.

Her eyes widened as she realized that she had finally miscalculated.

"Yes," she said slowly, carefully pulling it from her waistband. He knew she wouldn't have a weapon. Jack Bristow would never have trusted her that much.

"Mr. Sloane will be pleased," Sark said and shot her.

He exited the limo, opened the back door and retrieved the manuscript from Irina's still warm fingers. He smiled. Did she really think he'd go back to being her dog after tasting the freedom and power of running the Organization without her?

He expected that sort of deliberate blindness from Arvin Sloane, but Irina Derevko should have known better. She'd gone soft though, when she learned her daughter was part of the game.

A shame, Sark reflected. He shrugged. All things ended. His alliance with Sloane was convenient for now, though he wouldn't regret putting a period to it when the time came.


His hand hovered over the trigger to the bomb.

What would happen if Caplan's calculations were off? He thought about the church that held Kabir's wife among so many others. What would happen if the Rambaldi device worked exactly as expected?

Sark pulled his hand back.

He could blackmail, steal, kidnap and murder in cold blood, but apparently there was a line he wouldn't cross.

He climbed out of the van and walked up the stairs and into the cathedral, where he sat down on a bench and began to pray for his soul, until Sydney Bristow pressed the muzzle of a gun against the back of his neck and demanded, "What are you doing here, Sark?"


He climbed into the ambulance and made the call authorizing his man to turn the antidote over to Jack Bristow in LA, then looked back at Sydney in her Geisha get up and smiled.

"A pleasure working with you," he murmured, too low for her to hear. It wouldn't be for the last time. She'd stepped over the line and there was no going back.

Ten minutes later, he had the distinct pleasure of telling a revived and conscious Arvin Sloane exactly who had betrayed him, before putting a bullet between the man's eyes.

He wondered if Sydney would have nightmares about what she'd done. It had been years since anything had bothered him that much.

He could have told her it got easier, but she'd learn anyway.

He was looking forward to teaching her.