Belfast

1. Pigeon

Firmly centered in the cross hairs, so close in the enhanced telescopic sight that the beads of rain on its feathers could be counted, the pigeon remained oblivious, discontentedly pecking at nothing.

Sark watched until the bird abandoned the building opposite and fluttered off in search of either a dry haven or a better prospect of a meal. Once it had disappeared, he brought the sights back onto the doorway. A dark, dreary drizzle had been soaking Belfast since before dawn and a rivulet of dirty water ran down the gutter. The light was poor, but more than sufficient to identify the target when he exited out the side door where the warehouse opened onto the alley.

There hadn't been a sign of movement in hours, not even a random passing car. Belfast was quieter than it had been in previous years, but Sark's sharp ears caught the distant eeee-aaah, eeee-aaah of sirens, distinctly different from the sound used in the States. He grimaced briefly at the thought. If Connelly's INLA splinter group succeeded in purchasing a shipment of arms from the Organization, Belfast could expect to experience a resurgence of its usual, brutal, sectarian violence.

More work for the ambulance drivers and hospital emergency rooms.

He dismissed the thought. It didn't effect him. Irish he might have been born, but he had no loyalty to the country or any of the creeds that had torn it apart for generations. Only amateurs killed innocents over religion. The only op he'd ever regretted had been in Mexico City, when he detonated the Rambaldi bomb in a church. It had been a wasteful demonstration of Sloane's greed and malevolence as much as a stratagem. Sark had executed the op, despite his distaste, and been pleased to see the end of his days as Sloane's lackey approach with Irina's return.

With a sigh he would never have permitted himself had anyone else been present, Sark rose from the neatly arranged sniper's post, leaving the bipod mounted SIG SSG-3000 rifle in place.

His left knee protested the swift movement, a souvenir of a hand to hand bout three weeks before in Marseille. He'd gotten sloppy and careless and paid for it. He and Sydney had taken this assignment because it meant not having to beat the shit out of a dozen rent-a-guards—probably—for once. Not that he couldn't function, but it would be another week before he was at peak level again.

Meanwhile, he kept the knee wrapped against the damp chill of the unheated, unoccupied office that provided the best line of sight to the kill zone, popped aspirin, and tried to keep it from stiffening up.

That in mind, he made a circuit of the room, checking the laptop monitors that displayed the feeds from various video and audio bugs he'd placed inside Connelly's flat and the warehouse last night. Sydney had kept Connelly busy, wining and dining him as Irina's representative, while Sark went in. A separate case simultaneously ran and taped the audio feed, the volume turned too low to be heard outside the room. It would alert him if anyone entered the warehouse.

He checked the battery on his cell. Sydney was tailing Connelly today. If the man deviated from his previous pattern of the last five days, she would call. They weren't expecting Hempstead to show until evening, but arms dealers and terrorists didn't survive by becoming predictable.

The rain eased off, but still lent the afternoon light a rippled, underwater aspect as it filtered through the wet windows. Sark flexed the knee twice, testing his range of motion. If it had to support him in a fight, he'd have to remember not to favor it. Never let an opponent see a weakness was a lesson he'd learned in his first English Public School.

Not allowing himself to limp, he walked back to the window and went back to watching patiently. On the warehouse's roof, the grey pigeon had returned along with two more, both a softer shade than the first one. The chirp of his cell phone brought him out of the near trance he'd fallen into, just watching the birds hop and strut over the flat asphalt roof.

Sark checked the number of the caller. There were only two people who had this cell's code, Sydney and Irina, and neither woman would call without good reason. In this case, he saw it did not come from the encrypted unit Sydney was carrying.

He answered his employer efficiently. "Sark."

"A complication has arisen," Irina informed him. The faint Russian accent she hadn't erased from her speech seemed more noticeable on the phone. "The CIA has learned of the target's activities and assigned an agent to intervene."

Sark considered that and the fact Irina found it necessary to inform him and drew the correct inference. "Agent Bristow."

"He was sighted at Shannon and is listed on a flight manifest indicating he arrived at Belfast City Airport last night."

"I shall alert Sydney of the situation," Sark said.

"Jack can be a very vindictive man, Sark," Irina cautioned.

He understood.

"Noted."

"Mission status?"

"In progress. Subject Two is under surveillance. Target ETA four to eight hours from now." Sark paused then asked, "Is that all?"

"Don't kill Jack if you don't have to," Irina said wistfully and cut the connection.

He flipped the cell closed and weighed the slim object in his hand, reflecting how singularly unhelpful Irina's advice always was. It reflected her ambiguous attitude toward Sydney's father perfectly. Unless she was obliquely warning him that murdering Sydney's father would have an adverse impact on their relationship. Which it would, he acknowledged. Despite their estrangement, Sydney remained Jack Bristow's daughter as much Irina's.

This was a complication he didn't relish. Perhaps it would be better to simply not tell Sydney of her father's mission in Belfast? Sark sneered at himself. She'd gut him if she found out he'd kept it from her.

Moreover, ignorance of possible interference in their op could endanger Sydney. She needed to know, as he had, in order to compensate.

A footstep outside the office door forestalled Sark's intentions. He pocketed the phone and drew the Glock 17 that had been delivered courtesy of the Organization, along with the rest of the op equipment, when they arrived at their hotel in Belfast. Sydney had chosen a Russian PSM as her carry weapon as its sleeker design made it easier to conceal. In addition, the 5.45mm Soviet cartridges it fired performed remarkably well against several types of body armor. Sark preferred to use NATO standard ammo, such as the Glock accepted, finding it more reliable. He preferred head shots in any case, as few people sported Kevlar helmets.

He leveled the pistol at the door and waited, still and silent. The drone of the audio feed wouldn't reach the hall, but a movement might be sensed. A mere breath of disturbed air could betray an enemy's presence. Sark chose to withhold that clue.

The doorknob moved. Sark had locked it behind himself when he arrived before dawn. It provided an effective few seconds warning, despite its antiquity.

Whoever stood on the other side of the door found the lock no more difficult to pick than Sark had. It clicked open in seconds and the door swung into the room, revealing the new arrival.

Jack Bristow.

2. Stone

Bristow had his pistol aimed at Sark before either of them recognized each other. With the window behind him, Sark was little more than a silhouette within Jack's sight picture.

"If I'd only known you were coming, Agent Bristow, I would have arranged tea," Sark said.

Jack's eyes narrowed. The pistol didn't waver. Sark watched the man's finger, where it curled within the trigger guard. If he saw that digit start to tighten, he would fire and damn Irina's advice. He had no doubt Jack would shoot to kill.

"Sark."

He couldn't read Jack's face. Did his presence surprise or alarm the man? The stony mask never cracked and Sark admired the man's control.

"Where's Sydney?"

Questions always revealed so much. Jack's revealed his knowledge of the connection between Sark and his daughter. It revealed his worry that he might have to confront his daughter, as an enemy, at any moment. Surprisingly, it revealed only a modicum of anger at Sark himself.

"Safely elsewhere," Sark answered

Arms grow tired. The first flush of adrenaline ebbs, and concentration begins to waver. Sark decided the situation needed to be amended before a slip on either of their parts prompted a bloody end to this confrontation. He had the superior position, backlit as he was, while Jack had to cope with the contrast of window light and dark room. That could translate into Jack making a mistake and in this context a mistake could kill them both.

He said flatly, "I won't ask you to throw away the gun, but if you don't lower it, I will shoot you right now."

Something shifted in Jack's nearly expressionless face. Sark watched in bemusement as he painstakingly swung the pistol's aim to the side and slowly lowered his arm. Sark did not lower or change the aim of his own gun. Jack stared at him expectantly. He seemed equally prepared for Sark to put away the Glock or shoot him with it.

"Well?"

Sark nodded at the door.

"You're free to go."

A snort of disbelieving laughter escaped Jack.

"You don't believe I'm about to do that."

"Well, no, but I did make the offer," Sark replied. He lowered the Glock to waist level, keeping it aimed on Jack, and stepped back. With his free hand, he gestured to the CIA agent to step inside.

Jack's eyes darted over the surveillance gear, noting the professionally placed cameras provided complete coverage of two different locations, both apparently empty at present. He quickly catalogued the bottled water, fruit, and energy supplement bars lined up at one end of the table nearest the window, along with the single salvaged chair, the half empty bottle of aspirin, the military grade binoculars and the copy of Voltaire beside them. A waste basket held the evidence of two previous meals. Even the dark brown cashmere overcoat folded neatly over the back of the chair provided information. Bristow's shoulders were still dark with damp. The coat on the chair was dry, indicating Sark had been in place for sometime since the rain had only let up recently.

The SIG sniper rifle explained the set-up. With a short nod of recognition, Jack grasped the irony that found him there. He'd broken into the partially bombed, abandoned building and proceeded to this third floor office for the exact same reason Sark had chosen it. It provided the perfect sniper's nest with its view of the alley behind the INLA warehouse.

"Who's the target?"

Sark raised an eyebrow. "And I would tell you, why?"

Jack merely shook his head.

"You don't seem surprised to see me," Jack stated.

Sark debated answering. Mentioning Irina might tick Jack off. Refusing to answer might do so too. Of course he could lie, he did that very well. Yet he chose the truth, which privately amused him.

"I was notified you were in Belfast."

"Derevko."

"I assume you weren't expecting to find me here?" Sark inquired. He imagined Jack would have come in firing if he had.

"No."

One had to respect Jack Bristow. He defined taciturn. Irina was oblique, allusive, always holding out the promise of more. Jack bit off his words. His delivery was so flat only an expert in voice and body language could read anything from him. Which of them had learned that from the other?

"Then we have a dilemma."

"You have a dilemma," he was corrected.

Sark blinked, then smiled, mockingly. So that was Jack, that 'bite me' attitude Sydney sometimes gave him. This wasn't the moment to think about Sydney, however. "I believe your mission in Belfast involves Mr. Hempstead, does it not?" He continued, "If you spend your time interfering with me, Agent Bristow, you will allow him to walk away having successfully marketed his purloined US arms and munitions to Connelly. So my dilemma is yours."

The glass behind him rattled as a random gust of wind hit it. Jack took a harsh breath. Sark suppressed a flinch. The noise at his back had almost set him off.

Jack thumbed his pistol's safety on and slid it back into the holster threaded onto his belt at the small of his back. A shrug resettled his jacket and coat. He kept his hands well away from his body.

"Thank you," Sark said politely.

"I assume you're here for Hempstead too." Jack gestured to the SIG where it where it rested before the window. The dull black metal and plastic reflected no light, adding to the rifle's menacing appearance. Sark had a custom telescopic night-sight mounted on it. "He must be undercutting Derevko."

"Precisely," Sark replied.

Jack began to prowl the room, moving slowly, never approaching Sark too closely. Between two men trained in hand to hand as they were, a violation of personal space would be a threat. Sark would never allow an enemy within striking distance without good reason. He followed the man's movement warily, still poised for an attack.

"You're proposing we work together."

Sark pivoted in place, watching him.

"It seems we have little choice."

Neither of them could leave the room. If Jack went, Sark would be forced to relocate on the assumption the CIA would instruct the man to remove him once his presence was reported. There were a limited number of acceptable vantages on the alley. The CIA could afford to flood the area with contract agents or even alert the police and military to the situation. That would complicate his own mission and possibly compromise Sydney if she chose to come to the surveillance post before he could warn her. Jack's difficulty lay in achieving his own ends while in Sark's company and then, preferably, taking Sark down as a lagniappe.

Of course, if Sark did shoot Jack dead, the obvious problems would be solved. That he hesitated irked him. He would never risk his life so needlessly were it any other agent but Jack Bristow. Sark didn't fool himself that Jack had any similar qualms. This also irritated him. Had Irina ordered him to spare her former husband, Sark would have refused adamantly. His respect for his mentor never wavered, but their relationship did not include his gambling his life needlessly. The emotions he felt toward her were too complicated. No, he would not compromise himself or his mission for Irina. That he found himself doing just that resulted from his relationship with Sydney and no one else.

Did Bristow understand that? Did Sark want him to?

"I agree."

"You propose a truce until Hempstead is eliminated?" Sark asked for clarification. He let the distaste show in his voice. It was not a satisfactory solution except on the most superficial levels. Being trapped in a half-lit room that smelled like mildew with Jack Bristow until William Bradford Hempstead arrived at his meeting with Eamon Connelly could only be described as a punishment of monumental proportions. It would amuse Irina no end when he debriefed.

Jack glared at Sark. He had clearly come to the same conclusions and disliked them as much as Sark did.

"I agree," Jack grated out again through a clenched jaw.

"We conduct ourselves as professionals, refrain from hostilities, until I have terminated Hempstead and we part ways," Sark said. He wouldn't turn his back on this man without that clearly stated.

Snipers themselves were uniquely vulnerable. In recent actions, Sydney had acted as his spotter and guarded his back. He knew she retained a dislike of cold-blooded killing, even of targets like Hempstead, and chose to take that part of the job on himself. It was a small gift that cost him little; Irina had taught him to kill without conscience. When he nestled his cheek against the specially molded stock of his rifle and aimed through the telescopic sight he felt nothing. His heart rate slowed and his breath came smooth and even until he had his shot and took it in the space between exhale and inhale. Unless he could discount Jack as a threat, he could not do that with the man at his back.

"Yes. I give you my word," Jack said.

Sark safed the Glock, ready to react if Jack had bluffed him. He estimated if Jack were to attack him, it would be in the moment he holstered the pistol. When no attack materialized, he upgraded the likelihood Bristow meant to honor the agreement.

To test the matter a final time, Sark deliberately half turned away, scanning the monitors. At the same time, he watched the blurry reflection of the other man in the screens, alert to any sudden movement. Bristow's assault was verbal instead and cut Sark with a shock of pain where he thought he had long ago grown numb.

"You're Geoffrey Eliot's son."

3. Mercy

"You're Geoffrey Eliot's son."

Sark spun and his knee shrieked but all he could register were the words. You're Geoffrey Eliot's son. He should have known. He should have understood that Jack Bristow would find out everything he could about Sark once Sydney joined him. He'd childishly convinced himself Irina was the only one who knew who he had once been. He had locked it all away in a box in his mind and chosen to become someone else.

How much of that could be read on his features, he didn't know. For one moment, his poise had cracked, but he mastered himself quickly, assuming the haughty mask he'd learned would irritate and distract most opponents. But Jack Bristow was an opponent to match Irina, who had taught Sark most of his tricks.

Sark resisted the urge to run his fingers through his hair or turn away. No weaknesses. No emotion. Bristow was looking for a chink in his armor, a vulnerability to use against him. He wouldn't betray himself.

"You are."

After his reaction, he could hardly deny it, Sark acknowledged.

He said, "You have good sources. I hadn't believed that information was available…to anyone." He paused and added bitterly, "There is after all a death certificate."

Jack turned slightly away, his shoulders hunching briefly. "I have one of those listing Laura Bristow as deceased."

One more thing he had in common with Irina. Sark wished he could sit down. Normally he could operate for up to forty-eight hours without sleep without experiencing a significant downgrade in his performance. But his knee hurt, the cold and damp sapped his energy, and all the memories he wanted to forget left him weary and stung. There were facets to his association with Irina he preferred to leave unaddressed and they all revolved around his father.

Taking advantage of Jack's distraction, Sark sidled toward the barren metal desk he'd established the laptop monitors on. He refused to let himself limp, but leaned a hip along the edge of the desk gratefully. Concentrating on the physical kept his thoughts away from what else Bristow might know. The grainy, blue toned images on the screens refused to alter though, giving him nothing else to occupy his thoughts.

Sark despised being vulnerable in any fashion, but with one statement, Jack Bristow had him feeling just that.

Jack wandered over to the table. "Mind?" He gestured to the supplies.

Sark shrugged. He felt out of balance.

Jack picked out and opened a bottle of water.

"So what happened?" he asked.

"What?"

"The leg?"

So Bristow had spotted that. Unless he wasn't sure and the question was a probe, meant to trip Sark up somehow. There were wheels within wheels when dealing with an asset of Jack Bristow's calibre. Sark refused to underestimate him.

"Nothing."

Jack shrugged and sipped from the bottle.

"Who falsified the death certificate, Sark?" Jack asked, circling back to the one flash of emotion Sark had let slip. He'd had years to learn all the ins and outs of interrogation. Establish a rhythm, then throw it off, keep the subject uncertain. Sark was familiar with the technique. It could still disconcert. "Not you, you were only thirteen."

"Worried that my…father is a mole for the Organization, Agent Bristow?" Sark replied sardonically. "You needn't. She did sleep with him, though."

Jack grunted. "I'm not surprised."

"I shall relay your high estimate of her morals to Irina."

"Irina Derevko and morals are as alien to each other as they are to you, Sark."

Sark smiled. "She deceived you. Twice. Admit that is what irks you about her." He ignored the intended insult. Morals were for those who needed outside structures to maintain their identities. He had learned to be complete unto himself. Very little reached him with the exception of Sydney; most of his emotions had died years before. Even his pursuit of and liaison with Sydney had started as a game, one meant to manipulate Irina, but which had become instead the most driving force in his life. She was the exception to all his personal rules.

The insolence on his face softened as he thought of her. She had given up the life she'd known and the one she'd once hoped to have when she joined him. But he had forfeited his protective detachment for her, abandoned numbness for feeling again. Only his confidence in her had supported him then. It still did.

Neither he nor Sydney had ever said they loved or needed each other. Nor would they ever. Too many phobias surrounded the words for both of them. Sark had long since faced what it was he felt for Sydney though, in the solitude of his own thoughts.

Irina had withdrawn her objections to the relationship once she understood there were no lengths he would not go to in order to protect Sydney and hence himself. He had not stopped being a survivor, merely added Sydney to what was necessary to that survival.

"Is that what she did to your father?" Jack asked. Did she make him fall in love with her too? Came the unspoken question.

Distracted, Sark answered honestly, "He knew her as Irené de la Roche and, I believe, enjoyed their liaison, but my father is not capable of love."

"Does Sydney know who you are?"

"She knows I am Sark," he replied, tired of the entire thing. "Everything else is irrelevant." He'd chosen the name, just as he had chosen to follow Irina's course and make himself into the man he was. The boy described in the death certificate had died, died and been resurrected, remade into someone who would not be betrayed or hurt. Someone who had felt nothing for the longest time.

"Would she think so?" Jack asked placidly. Sark had to look away from his basilisk dark glare. "Would she, Gabriel?"

"Yes," Sark snarled. "Sydney would. Gabriel died when Geoffrey Eliot refused to pay Irina's ransom demand. One fragment of a Rambaldi manuscript in exchange for his son's life was too high a price to pay."

4. Ice

Neither man spoke again for sometime. Sark silently castigated himself for losing control. Jack's expression meanwhile revealed disgust and contempt in equal measures. Sark defiantly limped across the room to the window over the alley and planted himself next to it. The sniper nest with the SIG lay between him and the rest of the room...and Bristow. He was determined to ignore the CIA agent.

The words came spilling out though, despite himself. There were things he had never said to Irina, just because she had been part of it.

"I imagine his friends in Special Branch arranged the death certificate. Irina told him she had killed me. He didn't care. My existence was inconvenient, a reminder of a mistake."

After his mother died, Sark had been removed from their rooms above the pub where she had worked. The men who came to Carna for him were British military, undercover members of the Force Research Unit his father had been part of during his tour in Ireland. He hadn't known them or even recognized his father when he was delivered to the man in England. Within days, he had been shipped off to the first of several boarding schools, his father's words echoing in his head. "Since you're my responsibility, you will go to school. I refuse to have a son who sounds like an illiterate Irish bog-trotter."

Geoffrey Eliot hadn't relished the reminder that he'd married an Irish Catholic girl as part of his cover in his stint with the FRU, before he went to work for MI6. His Anglo-Irish son with the Galway accent had been an embarrassment he supported but kept hidden.

Sark hated those memories.

The kidnapping had been a nightmare repeat of the uncertainty following his mother's death. He'd met his father's latest mistress, the elegant Irené, the one who called him 'Galya', while on school holiday. The next time he saw her, she was dismissing the men who had snatched him from his school. It had been weeks. He'd had no control again, no say in whether he lived or died, much less what he wanted. He'd been grateful to see Irené for an instant, before grasping that she had been the cause of his ordeal.

"Irina kidnapped you?" Jack exclaimed. "Why?"

"She miscalculated," Sark replied dully. "She couldn't get what she wanted from him in bed. The parchment had been in his family for generations. When she failed to completely seduce him, she enacted a second plan. She thought she could force him to give her the document."

"What went wrong?"

"He wouldn't do it."

She had loosed the ropes binding him to the bed frame with deft, swift fingers, frowning at his disheveled clothes and the bruises beneath them. He'd held still and stayed silent. Once he was freed, he'd pulled himself into a tight ball and waited, watching her. Irina had stroked his cheek. "Has it been so very terrible, Galya?" He'd only looked away and refused to speak, rigidly rejecting the contact.

Looking back, Sark felt certain Irina had understood exactly what it had been like for him. He hadn't been so practiced in suppressing and hiding his emotions. The marks had been on his flesh to read. She knew what her hirelings had done to entertain themselves while they waited. She'd meant them to break him. Whether she meant to return him to Geoffrey thus or to bind him to her afterward in gratitude for his rescue, he had never asked.

He hadn't known then that she could see through him and had stayed silent, the shame and despair thick in his throat. He'd never spoken to anyone of those weeks. He never would.

"Yet you work for her now." Jack shook his head with a sneer.

Sark shrugged.

Irina could have killed him. She'd told Geoffrey she would. She'd played the tape of their conversation for him.

"Do you really want your son to die, Monsieur Eliot?" Irina had purred. "Is his life worth less than a small piece of paper to you?"
"Irené, or whoever you really are, you would never resort to such a ploy for a mere piece of paper," Geoffrey replied. "I will not be extorted from or threatened into turning over anything to you."

"He's such a lovely child. My men are very fond of him already. If you do not give me the document, you will never see him again."

"Keep him. He's just a mistake I made years ago, one I'm glad to be rid of," Geoffrey said coldly. "I can easily marry some woman to give me another brat, Madame de la Roche. One who isn't a whore like you and that Irish tart I was stupid enough to marry before."

"Then consider young Gabriel dead, Geoffrey," Irina said at last. "A shame, he had such promise, but such is the way of these things."

The ice that filled him then had not melted until he met Sydney. Pockets of it remained within him. The permanent chill had become part of him.

He'd listened until the words were engraved in his mind, but he'd refused to snivel or beg. He was numb. Pleas wouldn't save him any more than his father would, he had already understood. Irené, with her secretive smile and her faintly accented voice, was the one who had control; she had the power. She had owned his life at that instant.

"Gabriel is dead," Irina had said to him. "But I think I shall keep you, Galya. Do you understand?"

She had taken his chin in her hand and lifted his face to hers, staring into his eyes until he nodded.

Everything that he would one day become had crystalized within that moment. One day he would be the one in control. That fierce, frozen ambition had fueled Sark's rise through Irina's organization, kept him sharp and ruthless and focused. It had molded him into an ice-cold killer. It had kept him alive where others failed, because he had already learned he had no one to rely on but himself.

From that day, he had been Irina's apt pupil, but never offered her more than he received in return. He was never her dog. He was one of the wolves, and if he ran with the pack sometimes, he was still always alone.

"It was better than dying," he said at last. "And you have little grounds for criticism, Mr. Bristow, considering that you subjected your daughter to the Project Christmas testing protocols as a child, then blindly stood by and allowed Sloane to recruit her as an agent. If you had been a father to her, she wouldn't have been in this life at all. She'd be married to that poor fellow, Danny, innocently teaching literature or language somewhere. Irina would never have revealed herself to her or you."

"She wouldn't be with you," Jack pointed out archly.

"No, she wouldn't," Sark agreed. "And wouldn't you be happier if she wasn't?"

"Certainly."

And I, Sark thought, I would still be safe behind my walls of ice, where nothing and no one could touch me.

He shivered.

5. Warning

The chirp of his cell galvanized them both from their dark thoughts. Sark checked the number as he activated it, keeping a sidelong eye on Jack.

The call was from Sydney's unit.

"Go," he said.

Sydney's smooth, warm voice filled his ear.

"Subject Two has changed cars again. This one's a dark blue, late model Citroën," she reported. She recited the plate number. Sark memorized it as a precaution. "I'm behind them now, hanging back."

"Who else?"

"The driver and the babysitter from last night."

Sean Patrick Neeley and Lorcan Morgan, both long time members of the INLA, wanted for murder and other criminal activities in the Republic of Ireland as well as Ulster. They'd been with Eamon Connelly since he split from the Provisionals. Both would be armed and moderately dangerous, but they were aging and sloppy too. Sydney could shadow them all day without either of them noticing.

He wanted to tell to be careful anyway, but didn't. Not because Jack was there listening. Sydney didn't need the reminder.

"It looks like we're heading into the docks," Sydney said. "Closing on your locale. Any sign of the target?"

"Not yet."

He glanced at Jack.

"Use the fallback rendezvous point, this one has been compromised," he told her. He didn't want Sydney walking in on them. "...If I don't check in on schedule, abort and withdraw immediately." He didn't bother telling her to use an exit route he wasn't privy to; Sydney was a professional.

Sydney was silent a few seconds.

"Are you operational?" That soft note in her voice, filled with apprehension and concern meant for him, told Sark what the words didn't say.

"Just taking precautions. It shouldn't interfere with the mission."

She said softly, "I'll hold onto the phone until then." The encrypted unit should hold up against a location trace at least twenty-four hours. Irina supplied top of the line equipment.

He wanted to say her name. Just that. He couldn't.

"How close are you?" he asked instead.

"Ten minutes away."

Far enough.

He made himself say the next words.

"Jack Bristow is here."

"My father's here?" Sydney said swiftly. Sark imagined how her eyes would have darkened, her brows drawn together faintly. "Here in Belfast?"

"Here."

"With you. Oh God. I can—"

"No. Just maintain the surveillance."

"Right," she said brusquely, hurt in her voice, and disconnected.

Sark closed his eyes. If Jack broke his word now, his daughter would know what had happened. Sydney would know what to do to safeguard herself. She would know Sark hadn't just disappeared. He would have effectively destroyed what remnants of a relationship she had with the man. Small revenge. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass.

6. Target

"That was Sydney," Jack said heavily.

"She won't come here."

"What do you think I would do?" Jack demanded of him. "She's my daughter—"

"I don't know and now I don't have to wonder," Sark interrupted.

On the street at the other end of the alley, a black four door Peugeot pulled up to a stop. Only the rear half of the vehicle remained visible. Sark focused on it. He extended his hand back toward Jack. "Binoculars."

Bristow set them in his hand, joining Sark at the window.

Sark studied the man exiting the Peugeot, comparing him to the image Irina had provided. He had an eidetic memory but the angle was wrong to see much beyond a dark head and the turned up collar of the man's heavy coat. He was little more than a dark silhouette in the almost blue light of the early evening.

"It could be Hempstead."

Sark handed the binoculars to Jack.

"Turn around," Jack muttered. He peered down the alley. Sark went to the audio equipment and dialed up the volume, then checked the warehouse monitors. Both men had snapped into work mode. "Damn it."

"Can you identify him?" Sark asked.

"No, he's turned away, looking down the street."

"Right height."

"Yes." Jack looked over at Sark. "Could you make the shot?"

"Please, don't insult me," Sark replied. "Boyscout could make that shot. According to the files I've studied, you're a skilled sniper, so you know that. Why else did the CIA send you to dispose of Hempstead? You've proven yourself willing to kill."

Jack set the binoculars aside. "You should remember that."

"Sydney would, Jack," Sark reminded him, echoing Bristow's earlier taunt, "She would."

Movement on the street snapped them both back to the mission. A rain wet sedan idled down the street, dark paint either black or blue, and halted at the end of the alley nearest their office vantage.

A flash of headlamps up the street marked a grey Mini-Cooper passing through the intersection. The slick dark pavement and wet buildings glittered in the flash of its lights briefly. The car was too far away to see inside, but Sark knew who drove it.

Morgan, the bodyguard, climbed out of the Citroën first, scanning the street. He didn't look up, though he wouldn't have seen anything. The office was unlit, the window another blank black hole in the abandoned building's face.

"Contact," Sark said quietly. "Connelly's babysitter."

"You seem to know him."

"Connelly? Sydney dined with the man last night, acting as Irina's proxy." Sark shuddered in disgust. He had done many things in the course of his association with Irina. Some were things most men would regret. He had killed, often. He had seduced women and several men. He did not think he could have stomached an entire evening as the object of Eamon Connelly's lust though. He'd listened to the entire encounter through a radio ear piece linked to a transmitter in Sydney's earring. While Sydney had occupied the man, Sark had placed the surveillance cameras and bugs.

He added, "And I encountered him once before while he negotiated a previous arms purchase through Alexei Alexandri'ich."

Sark had used the familiar Russian name and patronymic, the one Irina had used. Bristow didn't recognize whom he meant. He saw an eyebrow go up and decided to clarify.

"Alexander Khasinau. The CIA and SD-6 were once under the impression I was employed by him."

"When all the while you were playing Irina's games."

"Something you should be familiar with too."

Jack sneered.

Sark mocked, "Oh that's right. You didn't know."

The taunt did no more than annoy Jack. He'd reached an equilibrium in regard to Irina Derevko. He regarded Sark levelly and said, 'Don't push me.'

The microphone planted by the warehouse door picked up the first noises as it opened and several men stepped inside. The sound picked up mid-conversation.

"—-have had satisfactory dealings with the Organization." Connelly's voice, much of the Irish brogue and charm he'd used on Sydney stripped away. "Forfeiting their good will could be costly. They've provided more than munitions on occasion."

Preceded by Morgan, Connelly appeared on the first monitor. A second man, swathed in a heavy dark coat entered after him, flanked by two obvious bodyguards. Neeley trailed in behind them.

"What can they offer in comparison to the package I've proposed?" the second man asked.

Sark studied the monitor image.

"It's Hempstead," Jack said. "I've listened to tapes of his voice."

Connelly led Hempstead deeper within the warehouse. The cameras there were in position to display clear head shots and faces. Connelly's long, pale face looked skeletal without color, the thatch of hair all that distinguished him from Edvard Munch's screaming man. "I'd prefer to see what I'm buying. I know the Organization can be relied on to deliver."

Hempstead was stocky in contrast to Connelly's ectomorph form, made heavier by the coat he wore. His features were bland, interrupted only by small, black current eyes.

Sark looked at Hempstead on the screen and his own image reflecting over it and thought of Shakespeare. That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain. And smiled to himself at the conceit. No one is ever the villain of his own story.

Hempstead pulled a key from his coat pocket and offered it.
"There are two cases in the boot of my vehicle. If one of your men would retrieve them? I anticipated that you might prefer to examine a sample."

Connelly waved Neeley over. "Go get them."

The driver snatched up the keys and hurried out.

"Tell me again what you're offering," Connelly prompted.

"A State Department and DoD approved End User Certificate and direct vendor delivery of the following," Hempstead recited in a bored tone. "Thirty crates of the Colt M16A2 automatic rifle, twenty of the Stoner SR-25 chambered for NATO 7.62mm rounds, three hundred fifty Calico M960A mini-submachine guns, fifty containers of the newest SOCOM Mark 23 Mod0 .45 pistols, twenty-five to each container, straight from US Army storage, and fifteen pristine Browning .50 calibre, belt fed machine guns. Standard ammunition for three months active use in a hostile theatre for each, along with five hundred pounds of C-4. "

"Detonators?" Connelly asked.

Hempstead smiled, "Of course, but there would be an additional charge."

Connelly nodded, expecting as much.

Jack Bristow took a deep breath and nodded to himself. "May I have a copy of the audio after this is over? If there are any questions regarding Hempstead's culpability, it would answer them."

"It must grow tiresome, constantly justifying the most rational decisions," Sark commented idly. "Performing the most loathsome actions without acknowledgment that the CIA has taken a hand in the matter, without thanks or profit, in the name of plausible deniability."

"You don't consider your work for Irina Derevko and others 'loathsome'?"

"Distasteful, at times, admittedly," Sark said. He reflected and saw no harm in adding, "I disliked Sloane intensely at first, but he was brilliant in his fashion. He was well aware of your and Sydney's double status, you know, before I came to SD-6."

"I don't believe you."

"You were his conduit back to the CIA. When he had what he wanted from the Alliance, he left and I gave Sydney Server 47. He did use you as a red herring to distract Alliance security, but he protected you as well."

"To further his insane quest uncover Rambaldi's secrets." All of Jack's scorn for Sloane colored this statement.

Sark shrugged in response. The desire for power he understood. The obsession with Rambaldi that moved Irina and Sloane was alien to him though. He returned his attention to events in the warehouse.

Neeley returned, carrying a long, matte black case in each hand. He placed them and the key on an empty table and stepped back. Hempstead strode forward and dialed open the combination locks. He laid the lids flat and stepped back with a wave of his hand.
"Take a look, gentleman."

The lack of detail on the surveillance monitors meant Sark and Jack could only see that some sort of weaponry lay nested in the cut out foam lining the cases.

"I didn't include the Browning," Hempstead explained. "It's 84 pounds and all the world is familiar with it by now."
"It's a classic," agreed Connelly. "Five hundred rounds a minute, manufactured and in use since 1933. Never wears out. We had three of them in our first cell, before the Provos let Sinn Fein cut their balls off and got in bed with the Home Office and the NIO."

"Then you know just how much such a weapon is worth."

"Hard to conceal, though," Connelly pointed out. "We ended up abandoning them in place after lighting up UDA headquarters one night. Didn't even have time to spike them."

"If that is your concern, check out the Calicos," Hempstead suggested, smiling confidently.

Connelly walked to the table and lifted out a mini-submachine gun from the left-hand case. He examined it carefully, his expertise with the weapon marking one reason he had become the INLA armorer.

"I've fired one, but I prefer the Czech Skorpion, myself, " Sark remarked, while Connelly went over an example of each weapon Hempstead had offered.

"Is that what Irina would sell them?"

"I think the CIA will have to work a little harder to find that out," Sark told him.

In fact, the weaponry package Sydney had offered Connelly the day before had filled all the same slots Hempstead's did, differing merely in manufacturer and model.

Sydney had fire demonstrated the concealed Heckler & Koch MP4KA4 submachine gun in its specially fitted briefcase. She had shocked Connelly's babysitters badly when she fired a three round burst in a paper target at the far end of the warehouse without opening the case.

Sark had overseen Sydney at the firing range in the Cypress compound. She'd been particularly adept with the short, anti-terrorist H & K design, thus her little bit of theatre for Connelly.

It had served as both warning and reminder as well that no matter how young and pretty Sydney seemed, she was not to be fucked with by anyone. Connelly hadn't groped her again, instead trying to charm her all night.

Sark dismissed that and knelt beside the SIG, fingers checking the safety, the five-round magazine, the sight, reflexively. He nestled it close, flipped on the night sight battery, and peered through it. The back door jumped out clearly in shades of sickly, electric green. Satisfied, he ignored Jack and arranged himself in as comfortable a position as possible. Hempstead and Connelly were still talking, but Sark was patient. He could stay in place, waiting, hours on end.

Over his shoulder he said, "The third laptop has a disc in it. It's a copy of everything the audio has picked up since Connelly's arrival tripped the mics. It updates every three minutes. Just pull it or take the laptop. There's nothing else there the CIA can use."

"I'll give you a count down when they head for the door."

"Connelly likes the sound of his voice. It could be a while."

"You can tell me about my daughter," Jack said. "Did Irina assign you to her?"

7. Mirage

Sark laughed.

"No, and she was not well pleased with me," he said. "Irina does not own me, though."

He snuggled closer to the sniper rifle, sinking into the almost meditative state that was his kill zone. Once he was there, he couldn't miss.

"Then why—?"

"Because she was…Sydney," Sark said and found nothing else to add. Even he wasn't cruel enough to say, Because you were destroying her. You were hollowing her out until, like you, she had nothing left but the job. She'd come to him. He'd been intrigued by her resemblance to Irina and the undeniable differences. Sydney retained an innocence so at odds with the life they lived. Sark had gradually become fascinated by her. He'd watched the slow, steady erosion of her ideals and discovered he hurt for her. He didn't know how to show compassion, but he offered her comfort in his fashion, a warm body, a face that did not judge, escape when she asked for it. He wouldn't say those things to Jack Bristow.

He focused on the doorway Hempstead would appear through. His breath had begun to smoke as the darkened office chilled further with nightfall. The rain had resumed, a steady tympani against the window glass. He could feel the other man moving in the room behind him, each shift stirring the air.

He suppressed the need to shiver, glad he'd at least worn a heavy sweater and the leather coat. His hands were another matter, even clad in gloves. Had he been alone, he might have shoved them under his armpits for a few moments or retrieved the cashmere overcoat and donned it too. Not in front of Jack Bristow though. It was too undignified. Der'mo, he thought to himself, using one of Irina's Russian expletives, and grinned. Too proud. Shit.

He waited for another question but it didn't come.

Hempstead quoted a price.

Sark raised an eyebrow.

"What, is he selling the firing pins separate and making his profit there?" he said in disgust. The price was significantly below what Irina would demand.

He heard Jack snort. "He's running a scam. The US Government is paying for the weapons. He's smart. No one had a clue. The GAO is the one who uncovered what he's been up to."

"Not smart enough," Sark commented, stroking his finger over the trigger. "Did he think his rivals would just have him arrested? That Irina would ignore him?"

"No," Jack agreed, an odd note in his voice. "Few men are smart enough to take on Irina Derevko." Sark looked up, trying to see the other man's face in the dark.

"Fewer win," he said carefully. "It's important to choose your battles. Once she has the advantage, she offers no quarter. She isn't...infallible, though."

"And you would know because you have been with her so long?" Jack was snide.

"Fourteen years. Longer than you were married to Laura Bristow," Sark replied, reminding him that Sark had been with Irina while Jack had been married to a mirage. Jack had held a phantasm in his arms, loved the image of what he wanted. Yet she had given the man Sydney, the act of leaving her daughter behind more generosity than self-interest. That remained real.

"Did you sleep with her too?"

Was that jealousy?

Sark turned back to the SIG and its telescopic sight.

Irina had seen to his training in all things. That had included sex. It was another weapon in the arsenal, one she had been determined he learn to use. She'd used it as a leash until Sark snapped it. She'd taught him wanting sex could be a disease and immunized him to it. There had been six months spent at a KGB facility in Odessa afterward, with the other sparrows and honeypots, learning seduction from both sexes. But the first time, with her, had been a gentle introduction to pleasure, a gift meant to erase what had been done to him before.

He'd been fifteen.

He didn't want to explain that to Jack Bristow either.

His feelings for Irina would always be tangled. The admiration and respect were easy, but the rest defied words. Gratitude and resentment in equal measure lived within him. She had saved and broken and helped remake him. She had given him more than most men could imagine, but she had exacted her price too.

He loved her and hated her and he understood Jack Bristow just a little too well for either of them to ever be comfortable with each other.

"Of course," Jack said to himself, because Sark's silence had been an answer.

Sark's respect for him ratcheted upward when he didn't mention telling Sydney. He said, "She sent me to Odessa," well aware the CIA knew exactly what was taught there.

"At least the CIA never asked Sydney to be a whore," Jack commented quietly.

"Only because she got the job done without making it necessary."

Sark waited for Jack to argue that, but he didn't. They were both silent afterward, listening to Connelly and Hempstead exchange false pleasantries while settling the purchase details. Sark recited under his breath, so quietly Jack might not have heard, "The villany you teach me, I shall execute, and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.'"

In the darkness, at last, Jack said very softly, "I'm sorry."

Whether he was sorry for the questions he'd asked Sark or the answers he had received, he didn't say.

"So am I."

8. Shot

Jack made a copy of the warehouse conversation up to that point. Sark watched the alley. They listened. Sark flexed his toes in his boots, just to encourage the circulation. Little splatters of rain hit the glass, caught on stronger gusts of wind. The dim blue glows of the monitor screens provided the only light in the office. They waited.

Connelly slapped Hempstead on the shoulder. "We have an agreement."
"I'll need the funds transferred into my Cayman Islands account," Hempstead replied. "American dollars."

"Details," Connelly dismissed that expansively. "Ah, lad, we'll take care of that bye and bye. Now the two of us should seal our partnership over a dram of good Irish whiskey. I know a pub where we'll be left to ourselves."

"They're leaving," Jack said needlessly. He refreshed his copy of the audio.

"And these fine weapons?" Connelly asked.
"Keep them as a mark of my esteem," Hempstead said. "A goodwill gift to celebrate our deal. Your people will be able to accomplish much more with what you're purchasing from me."

"And you, Mr. Hempstead? What do you get, beyond a fine and generous profit? This is a dangerous business. Is it more than money that brings you to us?" Connelly asked curiously.

"Isn't money enough, Mr. Connelly?" Hempstead smiled. "I'll leave the politics to you."

"If you please."

"Neeley's carrying the gun cases."

Sark steadied his breathing and flexed his fingers. He flicked the SIG's safety off. The first round was already in the chamber.

"Are the bodyguards ahead, parallel, or behind?"

"Ahead."

"Connelly?"

"With him."

No problem. Connelly was several inches taller than Hempstead. Sark didn't worry about mistaking one for the other. And if the Irishman were to obscure the shot, Sark would take him down too. The hand loaded, Teflon rounds he was firing would penetrate body armor or an extra body just as easily.

"Connelly's men are behind them," Jack reported steadily. "In the entry now. First two exiting…now."

In the green light circle of the telescopic sight, the door opened, a flare of white around two figures that stepped out and scanned the alley. Sark set the cross hairs on the man nearest the door, but held his fire.

"Got them."

The second man turned back, presumably speaking to the men still within the warehouse. A gesture indicated they should proceed.

"Connelly and Hempstead," Jack said. "Left and right, from their orientation." That meant Hempstead would stand on the left side from Sark's vantage.

The Irishman and Hempstead exited. For an instant, Connelly obscured him. Sark waited, wanting a clean kill. Connelly stepped away from the American.

Inhale.

Everything in shades of green and black through the sight.

"Target acquired."

Exhale.

No colors, just brightness and shadows.

Cross-hairs resting on Hempstead's temple as he turned up the alley.

Pull.

"Shot."

Hempstead jerked. A black spray of brain matter exited his head, hitting one of the bodyguards in the face. His arms flew out and he fell backward. Sark watched through the sights, but didn't fire again.

Jack was behind him, harsh breath in the darkness.

"Target down," Sark said.

The distinct click of a hammer being pulled back snapped through the office. Sark hadn't heard the safety come off, but assumed a CIA armorer had fine-tuned Jack's weapon and eliminated the telltale noise. He rolled away from the sniper rifle and stared up at the black-on-black silhouette that was Jack Bristow aiming a pistol between his eyes.

9. Exits

"Where is she? Where do I find Derevko? Tell me!"

"Na khuya?"

"Did Irina teach you Russian?" Jack waited. Sark didn't answer. "I could kill you right now. You're more than some pretty mokrie dela boy, Sark, ty mne van'ku ne val'aj."

"Otsosi."

"You're the one who went to Odessa, Sark. Maybe you'd blow me."

Sark narrowed his eyes. "You're not going to shoot me." He sat up in a single, lithe move and began dissembling the SIG, ignoring Jack. "I only do the Bristow women. Sorry."

"You cocky bastard."

"You wouldn't do that to Sydney. You know she'd come back here, looking for me. You wouldn't make her find someone else she…," he hesitated, then said, "cares for…dead. Not again. Not when she would know you did it."

He moved swiftly, reducing the SIG to parts small enough to fit inside a metal-sided Halliburton case and taking down the laptop network. He limped visibly. If you can't hide a weakness, exaggerate it until the enemy underestimates you. He pulled a disc that had logged everything and pocketed it. Jack already had his copy. As he disconnected the comps, he loaded each with a self-destruct virus that would destroy everything on them beyond recovery, then sprayed them down with an acid solution that would break down any DNA traces he'd left. The contents of the Halliburton received the same treatment before he locked it closed.

"Fuck," Jack muttered to himself.

Sark donned his overcoat and picked up the Halliburton. "We must do this again sometime," he said pleasantly, heading for the door.

"Sark."

Jack Bristow's face hadn't been molded to show emotion. His desperation and pain only showed in his eyes, in the fist the fingers of his free hand folded into, while the other still clenched around the butt of his pistol. Yet the pistol hung, unaimed, pointing at the floor.

"I need to see her, Sark."

"Why? What can you say to her that won't hurt?"

"You may hate your father, Gabriel. Sydney doesn't hate me."

"Are you so sure, Jack?"

Jack opened his mouth. Closed it.

"She hated Irina."

Sark nodded. "Some days, she still does." Sark relented though and recited a number. "Leave your cell number. Nothing else. Someone will make contact if she wants to talk to you."

"The truce ends when we walk away, Sark."

Sark paused, tipped his head, debated the question and how much more he wished to reveal, then asked, "I'm curious, I admit. Have you contacted … Eliot … in regard to myself?"

"He's on the Derevko observe but do not contact list," Jack said. "I couldn't be sure of his status regarding the Organization."

"I see." He shrugged, genuinely uncertain whether he was pleased or not. "You know, when I was eighteen, I stole that Rambaldi paper from his safe. I burnt it. —Good night, Agent Bristow."

Sark ghosted down the dark corridor and disappeared while Jack lingered behind him, lips pursed in thought, then followed.

10. Names

The shadow would have been lost in a more populated portion of the city or if Sark had been even slightly less alert. His tail was good, but he expected that.

As he walked swiftly through the rain-slick back alleys toward his goal, he withdrew his cell and called, confident she would be waiting. She answered on the first ring, "Comment ça va?"

Sark replied, "Trés bien." It didn't matter what he said, only that he replied in the same language, indicating he was under no duress. He went on, using a fast Swiss dialect. "The target's down, I'm on my way, but I've got a tick."

"Can you get rid of it?"

"Not fast enough on foot. It's just one right now, but if I pick up more, they'll stick."

"Where are you?"

"Two blocks from our original rendezvous point, walking east, a block parallel north to the original route."

He went on walking while Sydney calculated.

"Turn left at the next corner," she instructed. "I'll be waiting two blocks down at the intersection exactly five minutes from now."

"Bon."

"A bientôt," Sydney said and canceled the call. Sark lengthened his stride. His knee protested and he ignored it. It felt bad enough he knew he would have to have a doctor check it when they reached Bern. The Organization 'retained' the services of a discreet clinic there, the staff security vetted and well paid to forget anything any of their patients said while sick or anaesthetized.

He covered the two and half blocks at a pace calculated to reach the intersection simultaneous to Sydney. As Sark approached the intersection she'd indicated, it appeared empty. The quiet hum of an engine reached his ears though.

The Mini-Cooper rolled to a stop in the middle of the intersection ahead him, headlamps doused, the passenger's door already open facing him. The interior light that would have displayed the driver once the door opened had been disabled.

Sark broke into a lope, hearing the heavy footsteps behind him speed up too. He threw the Halliburton into the back and slid into the car. He drew his Glock and aimed it back down the alley.

A shout echoed between the brick walls of the buildings around them.

"Sydney, wait!"

Jack Bristow loomed out of the alley's gloom. Sydney's hands clenched on the steering wheel. She ducked forward and peered around Sark at her father. Sark stared down the Glock's sights at Jack. He shook his head when the CIA agent would have stepped closer.

"Sydney," Jack called.

"Dad," she said, one word filled with trepidation and yearning in equal measure. Her eyes were wide, dark with a multitude of emotions. Sark knew part of her wanted to go to her father. No matter how their paths had diverged, Jack and Sydney did love each other. He held his breath, uncertain what would happen next.

Jack appeared to struggle to find something to say. The distant, mist dimmed illumination of a street lamp limned his head in silver and washed all the color from his broad face. He just looked at Sydney.

Sydney appeared just as much at a loss, but her lips formed a smile for him, a true smile that reached her eyes.

Jack seemed to want to memorize her. Briefly, his eyes flicked to Sark, but then dismissed him. He said, "It's good to see you, Sydney."

"I miss you too, Dad," Sydney said gently. 'Don't come after us.' She shifted, let her foot off the clutch and touched it to the gas steadily.

The Mini-Cooper pulled away, leaving Jack behind on the street. Sark reached out and pulled the passenger door closed. Sydney took the first turn available and flipped on the headlamps.

Fifteen minutes later, Sark tossed the Halliburton holding the disassembled rifle into the River Lagan. The cashmere overcoat followed, in case Jack had tagged it with a transmitter sometime during the wait for Hempstead.

Sydney wrapped her arms around him from behind and leaned her face between his shoulder blades. Her warmth soaked into him and Sark subtly relaxed.

"Why didn't you kill him?" she asked softly.

Sark laced his fingers between hers.

"I didn't have to."

In the dark sky, the storm clouds were being chased apart by the wind. Looking up, Sark found the moon bright enough to rival Belfast's night time glow. The clean ozone and green scent of the earlier rain mingled with petrol fumes and salt from the harbor. A near smile twisted his mouth. The weather had cleared enough so they could fly out of the city whenever they wished. The Organization's Lear would be waiting at the airport.

"You could have."

He slid around within her arms to face her, pulling her close between his legs, relishing the contact.

"Irina asked me not to," he said evasively. He looked into her eyes, hoping Sydney would read what he couldn't say. "You … "

"Sark."

Sydney stroked her fingers over his face, touched them to his eyelids and his lips. Sark dipped his head closer.

"Sydney," he murmured. Just her name. It was everything there were no other words to convey. "Sydney."

She smiled for him.

"What next?"

He smiled back and the light of mischief in his eyes began to dance.

"The airport. And I make a phone call."

He pulled out the cell and tapped in Connelly's private number.

"Mr. Connelly," Sark said silkily when the Irishman answered, "Events appear to have rendered this a seller's market…"