Turning Point, by Lara and Thorne

Title: Turning Point
Authors: Lara (laras_dice@yahoo.com) and Thorne (akathorne@hotmail.com).

Rating: R, for some violence and sexual situations
Spoilers: Rendezvous
Archive: Credit Dauphine. Anyone else, please ask.
Summary: An AU Season Finale for the CD Super Challenge.

Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and was created by J.J. Abrams and Bad Robot, not Lara or Thorne. Sadly.

Thanks to:
Lara: Thank you, Thorne, for putting up with my nuttiness, among a million other things. This was an absolute blast to work on. And of course, thanks as well to Hill and CD.

Thorne:Thank you to Lara, first of all, because this was so much fun. Well, for more than that, but I’m not getting sappy here. Thanks to JJ Abrams and all the actors for giving us such great stuff to write about. And thanks to Hill for the challenge – it was a good one.

Published: 09-02-02

Turning Point

He jerked back into consciousness in the back seat of a dark, plush Towncar. After a long trip, filled with his questions and no answers, two men had carried him from the car into this building. One of them had shot him — killed him, he had thought at the time. Obviously not, because he was here — very much alive and in pain. The coolness of the floor felt good against the bruise on his cheek.

"What now?" the slight blonde man asked, from somewhere overhead.

"You shot me!" he cried.

"Silence, Mr. Tippin," the blonde’s voice was filled with soft menace, and he looked toward a vaguely familiar woman, who witnessed all of this without a visible reaction.

"That is not your concern, Mr. Sark." she said, accent clearly Russian. A nod told him Sark was dismissed, and Will was left staring up at her.

* * *

Los Angeles

Vaughn waited for her at the warehouse, shoulders tense. Something was wrong, something was very wrong; she wondered how he ever made it through CIA training when he telegraphed every emotion so clearly.

Sydney squared her shoulders. "What happened?"

He broke the news to her softly, gently — the charred rag in his hands the harshest part of the delivery. Yesterday Will had been wearing this gray sweatshirt. It still smelled of him, faint under the burnt scent.

"The safehouse was compromised. Someone broke in, and burned the place down." A pause and he avoided her eyes as he continued. "He’s dead. Sydney, I'm so sorry."

"No. No no no, how did this happen? What – no, this can’t be happening!" Sydney’s words tumbled out. "He was supposed to be safe, I told him – Vaughn, I told him he would be safe there! I promised him!"

"I know, but, Sydney, listen to me. Listen! You cannot blame yourself. There was nothing you could do. No one expected ...no one expected this to happen. We all thought he was safe," Vaughn said, his voice low and urgent. He inched forward when the sobs began, and then the only thing she felt was the warmth of his arms. His voice was soft in her ear, telling her again and again that it wasn't her fault, that he was sorry. That they would find whoever did this and make them pay.

* * *

London

Their instructions were very clear: she must dead by the morning. He had seen them coming even before he walked into the meeting, the word "remission" both glorious and horrible on his lips.

And when the instructions came, he was ready with a response. SD-6 was one of the most productive cells of the Alliance — one they would lose if he was forced to leave.

They had planned for his response, countered it with the one thing that had been his mission all along — upward mobility. It was available to him, after so many years of plotting, if he would only do the one thing that was inevitable whether he did it or not.

She remained mostly silent during the drive to the bed and breakfast, commented on the beauty and peace of the place as they checked in. And it would have been a nice place for her to recover in, he reflected, if that had been the reason for the trip.

It was not, however. He told her this only after they had unpacked, decided to walk down by a nearby stream.

He wanted to lay it all out for her then, the real history of his last few decades. But there was no explanation, nothing he could say that would not put her in more danger than she already was. He handed them to her — plane ticket, new papers and cards, new identity — and told her she had to leave now. That she was in danger greater than she could imagine. That he would take care of the rest.

And then he told her that he loved her, for the last time.

* * *

Tirana

She hadn't wanted to go. Sydney shouldn't have been here, in Tirana, at this stuffy cocktail party trying to hide her grief from Dixon. However, Vaughn had made it very clear to her that, as far as SD-6 was concerned, Will Tippin could not be dead yet. Rumors of the safehouse fire had spread throughout the intelligence community, and Will's coincidental death at the same time would have been suspicious. Might have blown her cover. Vaughn had explained all of this softly, told her she could call him any time, but that Will's death had to remain a secret for now. Let her have one more good cry before she left the warehouse — went out into the world where Will Tippin was still "alive."

The safe was a simple model — she had seen one just like it last year in Paris. Marshall already had a gadget for it — a rather attractive brooch, she had to admit.

This part had become routine for her, and she pulled the leather pouch out, CIA camera in hand and ready.

But when she slid the document from the cracked leather, her reality shifted. Will Tippin's innocent eyes came into view as she unrolled the parchment His face, from the angular cheekbones to the unruly curls, was clearly detailed on Rambaldi's document.

* * *

Los Angeles

Sydney was beginning to think that if she made another lap around this damn warehouse without talking about the document in her hands, she might just go insane.

She heard the door creak open and Vaughn's familiar footsteps. She wanted to run to meet him and show him what she had found, but she forced herself to stop and be still.

"Did you bring the code key?" she asked.

"Yeah, I have it," he replied. "What the hell is going on, Sydney?"

She held up the rolled parchment as he approached, stopping a few feet away from her. "I told SD-6 I didn't get it."

"Sydney! Your countermission was to photograph the page, not take the document. When SD-6 finds out — "

"— SD-6 cannot ever find out," she said, hands a little shaky as she started to unroll the document.

She handed him it to him wordlessly. He scanned the sketch of Will with visible apprehension.

"This looks like — " he started, but she cut him off, unable to stay quiet any longer.

"It is. It is Will. First my mother and now my best friend. Vaughn, I need to know what this says about him," Sydney heard the tremor in her voice as the words tumbled out.

Vaughn studied her face for a moment, then nodded. "Ok, let’s figure it out. But we don’t have much time. I need to get the code key back before they realize it’s missing."

Vaughn reached out, lightly touched her shoulder. "We will figure it out, Sydney. Okay?" He watched her carefully, waiting for her assent.

She dipped her head, took a deep breath. "Okay," she whispered.

* * *

Sydney tried to stop thinking about Will during the drive home from the warehouse. She and Vaughn had only managed to translate a tiny bit of the Rambaldi document before he had to return the code key to the CIA. She heaved a frustrated sigh as she retrieved her suitcase from the car trunk and stopped to pick up the mail. She flipped through the bills and junk mail and stopped suddenly in the middle of the walkway.

She held the envelope in her hand, not quite able to believe it. It certainly looked like a lie, but this time, it wasn't one of her own. She scanned the UCLA envelope — "Final Drop Notice" on the front in bold black letters above Francie's name — one last time, just to be sure. The words were still the same, and she braced herself, ready for a confrontation, as she opened the door.

Francie was only a few feet away, ready to leave, apparently. "This came for you," Sydney said, holding up the envelope.

"Oh," was the only response she got.

"Please tell me this isn't what I think it is." Francie only shook her head in response. "Francie, when did you decide to do this? Why didn't you tell me?" Sydney asked.

Francie walked away from the doorway, toward their living room, and motioned for Sydney to follow. She sat on the couch, and took a long pause before she began. "I filed the paperwork about two weeks ago, and I was going to tell you, but — " Franice’s voice trailed off.

"— A couple weeks! Francie, how could you not tell me?" Sydney interrupted.

"Syd, you're so busy, I hardly ever see you. I had just broken up with Charlie, and I saw you with that add/drop form. I started thinking, 'maybe this isn't what I want to do with my life.' And by the time I made my decision, you were back to juggling school, and your job, and I just didn't know how to say it."

"So when you told me you had a huge exam last week, that was a lie? When you met me after class for lunch, there was no class? Francie, I can't believe you would keep this from me!"

"Syd, I know, and I'm sorry. It just kind of got away from me, like one little lie turned into a bigger lie, and it got out of control," Fran explained.

"It got away from you? I’m your best friend, Francie! We live together! You could have told me a thousand ti— "
"I did try to tell you! You could have tried paying attention! But you had your own worries, the bank, tests, papers for your classes. You and Will always have some big crisis that you are in the middle of dealing with, and neither one of you have even noticed anything that's been going on in my life!" Francie shouted.

"Francie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I haven’t been here much lately, but…there is — there are a lot of things — " Sydney started to explain.

"Yeah, I know, things I don’t understand, things that are more important to you than your friends," Francie’s voice was uncharacteristically bitter as she finished Sydney’s sentence. Silence filled the room as they avoided each other’s eyes. Just as Sydney opened her mouth to reply, the trill of the telephone broke the quiet. Francie snatched the phone from its cradle before it rang again.

"Hello? No. No! Listen, there is no pizza place at this number! You have got to stop calling here," Francie’s voice grew louder with each word, until she was shouting into the receiver. She threw the phone down on the coffee table, and turned to face Sydney, who stood abruptly.

"I can’t…Francie. I can’t do this right now. I can’t…I have to go. I — I’m going to take a walk and think about some things. We’ll talk when I get back, ok? I mean," Sydney blinked through the tears that sprang to her eyes. "We’ll really talk. And I’ll listen," Sydney promised as she headed towards the door, leaving Francie staring after her in angry disbelief.

***

San Francisco

It was too much for anyone to handle, she thought, trying not to white-knuckle the steering wheel any more than she already was. It had been too much before, in her formerly sane life, when her friends were reasonably normal. It had been too much before Francie perfected her lying skills well enough to fool someone who did it for a living. It had been too much before Will had died — or had he? She had been unable to shake the idea that he might be alive and missing, a possibility that had been ringing quietly in her head since her first glance at the Rambaldi document.

And then this — a terse note from Vaughn telling her to meet him at a hotel just outside of San Francisco. No explanation, just an address, and a room number. She pulled into a parking space, her fight with Francie and her grief over Will still spiraling through her thoughts. She felt as though she could hardly hold herself together as she scanned the parking lot for observers.

The place was a run-of-the-mill Holiday Inn clone, as far as she could tell. Thousands like it across the country, and she had spent time in more than her fair share. Thousands of hotels, hundreds of rooms each, and she wondered just how many were used for meetings like this. She walked casually — a pace that belied the blood pounding through her — up one flight of stairs.

The shades to room 207 were drawn. About to knock, she caught herself when she noticed a keycard sitting on the windowsill, and she darted a hand out to grab it. She found that hand was shaking slightly as she fed it through the lock and let herself in.

He was sitting, quietly, on the edge of the bed, lit only by the dim lamp next to the bed. Looking much the same as he had earlier in the day, but more rumpled — more exhausted. More like he had something horrible to tell her.

Sydney made sure she included the deadbolt when she locked the door behind her.

"Vaughn?" Her voice wavered — part nerves, part leftover emotion from the rest of the day. "What's going on? Why couldn't we meet in LA?"

"Sydney, I think you should sit down before I tell you this."

She considered protesting — telling him that she could handle whatever he had to say just as well standing — but something in his eyes made her walk over to the bed. She sat, heart pounding, next to him, and he turned to face her.

"What I'm about to tell you, Sydney, I'm not even supposed to know. It's all Omega-17 — that's why we had to meet here," he paused. "The CIA has records of Will making repeated contact with a source inside Khasinau's organization."

This was not the giant shock she had been bracing herself against. "I know that, Vaughn. He was working on a story."

"That's not all. We recovered the security feed from what's left of the safehouse. Will engineered his own escape, Syd. It looks like he's been working with The Man all along."

"That's impossible!" she exclaimed, finding that she could not remotely reconcile the idea that her friend — sweet, kind Will, who bluffed so badly at poker, who let her cry on his couch — could also be a spy. "Vaughn, he's one of my best friends. There is absolutely no way that Will could — he was just…he was just my friend, Vaughn. Not a spy. He couldn’t — wait. Escape? Will ESCAPED? Are you sure? Do you know where he is?"

"No, I don’t know where he is," Vaughn replied, watching Sydney. "But…it looks like at least two people walked away from that fire. And there is some intermittent audio — Will discussing the escape with another man. The CIA is still looking into who could have helped him."

"No. No! Vaughn, I’ve known him for three years! I would have picked up on something, some clue, some hint that he was not what he seemed!"

He took a moment to consider this. "How did you meet Will?"

"He was working on an article for the school newspaper. He walked up to me in the student union and asked if I had time for an interview. It was completely random."

"Sydney, it wasn't random at all."

She recalled the SD-6 recruiter standing in front of her, holding a simple business card — a phone number only — and felt the urge to burst into tears. Sydney found herself able to fight that, but her voice wobbled as she spoke next. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you meeting him, becoming friends. It wasn't random at all. I think they wanted him to use his relationship with you as a means of getting intel on SD-6."

Sydney shook her head, and her trembling hand came up to cover her mouth. "Vaughn. Why does everyone I care about lie to me? Why…why isn’t anything in my life real?"

"Sydney, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Vaughn's voice was soft as he tentatively placed his hand on her shoulder. She leaned into the warm comfort of him, let the tears come freely. He rubbed her back gently, hands making slow, warm circles up and down her spine. "It's not your fault. You trusted him. You wanted to believe the best."

"No, it is my fault. I — I brought this on myself. I never should have — I shouldn’t," Sydney sobbed, her words muffled by her tears.

"No, no, Sydney, listen," Vaughn’s voice became urgent, and he took her wet face in his hands. "Listen to me. This was not your fault. I believe in you, you know that. There was nothing you could have done differently. Some people just can’t be trusted." His words sent shivers through her.

"And some people can be," she whispered. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, let her lips brush his, lightly. He responded instantly, lips warm under hers, like he had been waiting for this kiss for years. His thumb stroked her damp cheek as she slid onto his lap. She wanted him. She wanted to drown herself in his comfort and his hands, all over her, all through her. She wanted Vaughn to tell her that she could always trust him, that he would never do anything to hurt her. He was the only person she would ever believe that from again.

But he was silent at first. Maybe, she thought, he felt comforting words were too obvious — not needed — clear from his actions and voiced already a thousand times since she had known him. Clear from his touch now, fingers tracing delicately down her jaw, neck, shoulder. And then his hands, both on her back, pulling her deeper into the heat of his body. He drew his head back — just slightly — and whispered something around her mouth. "Sydney. You can always trust me," she thought, his words too soft to be completely clear. She realized she did not need the words, only the sentiment, and that had been apparent all along. And then she could only moan in response as his lips started on the same path his fingers had just taken — jaw, neck, and just as light and tender.

His lips returned to hers, then — this kiss more fierce, more passionate — his mouth even more reassuring with this new insistence. His hands were firm on her body as they slipped from her back, down her sides. Over her stomach, now, pushing to increase the scant space between them, enough to move up, up, up, and they were hot on her breasts, and his mouth was even hotter on hers. She leaned into the touch, but it was gone quickly, his fingers working carefully on the first button of her blouse, and yes, she thought, he would give her everything she wanted, and she would forget all the lies and betrayal. Remember only him, as his fingers slipped down to the second button, everything she needed, and —

"Sydney, we can't do this."

She didn’t understand his words for a second, but as he pulled back from her, it became clear. The tears he has kissed away sprang to her eyes again, and she tried to wipe them from her face before he saw. She should have known this was too good to be true.

"Sydney?" Vaughn sounded worried, but she refused to look at him, pulling her shirt back together as she twisted away. "Sydney — this isn't right. You're — you have too much on your mind right now. You just found out that your best friend lied to you for years, and we can't — you shouldn't do… this when you are so upset."

Sydney sniffled, and swept her tears away with the back of her hand. She took a deep breath and let it go slowly. "OK. You’re right. I need to find Will, I need to …not think about things that — " her voice hitched. "Things that shouldn’t happen."

She could feel more tears coming, and didn't want him to see them. He had seen enough already, made her feel like he could do something about them, and in the end only caused more. Vaughn — just another part of the everything wrong with her life. Sydney stood and strode to the door, yanked at the knob and was surprised to find that it went nowhere. Right, deadbolt.

"Sydney, don't leave like this." She could hear him stand behind her, take a few steps forward as she fumbled with the lock. Finally successful, she flung the door open and rushed outside, just as the tears began again in earnest. Vaughn called her name once again, but she knew he would not follow — couldn't risk them being seen together, even this far from Los Angeles.

***

Credit Dauphine

Marshall cornered her as soon as she walked into SD-6 - the last person she wanted to see at that point, until she heard what he had to say.

"Miss Bristow? Are you busy now, because we need to go over the op-tech for your trip to Berlin and you are not going to believe this cell phone I made to crack the safe, I mean like, wow, because I didn't think the infrared in was going to work, and then there was the magnet to work around, and it's all encrypted — "

"Marshall?" She had spoken his name several times already, but it often took this long to get Marshall to focus. "Where did you say I was going again?"

"Berlin, Miss Bristow. You're going after The Man, and his base is in a museum in the Kulturforum district, and the security is really tight, which is why you're going to need the cell phone, because in addition to cracking the safe, it will override the security cameras." He held up the phone, looking pleased. "I know it's just black right now, but if you tell me what color dress you're going to wear, I can put a different cover on it, you know, so you can match and everything."

She gave him as much smile as she could muster. "Good work, Marshall." The fact that he seemed to glow from her praise, she thought, might have actually been the most positive thing about her day. He responded with a quiet "Thank you, Miss Bristow," as she turned to start the short walk to Sloane's office.

If Will worked for The Man, she thought, this was her best lead to find him. And that was the only thing she wanted right now — to find him, make him explain to her just how he could betray her trust all these years. Find an answer to one of the questions pummeling her mind and perhaps it would ease the pain of the others.

Sloane was sitting quietly at his desk, staring into space — something he had been doing frequently as of late — as she walked into his office. "Hello, Sydney. What can I do for you?"

"Marshall told me about Berlin. I was just wondering when Dixon and I are leaving. I'd like to go as soon as possible — I've got an exam next week I need to study for."

"Sydney, you and Dixon aren't going to Berlin. We're sending Davis and Herrington. I know we've been working you awfully hard lately and I thought you could use a break." Sloane spread a slow smile across his face, one that was supposed to be kind and caring, she thought, but translated into creepy instead.

"No!" A little strong, that, and she backpedaled. "I mean, I really don't mind another mission, and you know how important it is for me to find Khasinau. To find my mom."

"Sydney, I understand that." He gave her the smile again. "But you look exhausted. I couldn't possibly send you out into the field in this condition."

"Are you sure?" He nodded, and Sydney knew she couldn't push the subject any further. "In that case…maybe I will take some time off, to study. If that's okay?"

"Of course."

She barely avoided the urge to sprint out of his office.

***

He respected Marcus Dixon. Collected and well beyond competent, Dixon was an agent who did his job without asking any questions or requiring any intervention. That - as far as Sloane was concerned — was the way an agent should operate, and so it surprised him to when he looked up from his desk to see Dixon standing in his doorway.

"I'm sorry, sir. Do you have a moment?" His voice was quiet, expression almost mournful. He was holding a manila envelope in his hand.

"Of course, Dixon. Have a seat." Sloane gestured to the chairs in front of his desk, and had a feeling he was not going to like the contents of the envelope.

Dixon sat slowly, then handed him the envelope, everything about the motion hesitant. He remained silent as Sloane opened the flap and slid the contents out, thinking that his instinct had been right.

"I didn't want to believe it. But she's been acting very suspiciously lately. So I followed her, to this hotel outside San Francisco — "

Pictures. First Sydney Bristow, entering a hotel room.

" — and she went in. I thought , I guess I hoped, that maybe she was having an affair, but she wasn't in the room long enough. And then the guy — "

Now a tear-stricken Sydney leaving the room.

"— the guy in the pictures left about a half hour after her."

The next picture showed a disturbingly familiar face — a man Sloane recognized instantly. He swallowed this realization, kept it down, and stayed impassive for Dixon. A long pause, as he stared at the photographs, just to be sure, and to formulate what he needed to say next.

"I want to thank you for bringing what you felt was suspicious activity by one of our agents to my attention, Marcus. I am well aware of Sydney's presence at the hotel; she is working on a classified operation and I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that."

An effective speech, he thought, because Dixon nodded. Looked relieved as he stood and exited the office. And as far as Dixon was concerned, the situation was under control.

Sloane knew that couldn't be further from the truth. He also knew he needed to find Jack Bristow — immediately.

***

Jack was agitated — beyond agitated, in fact — but it should have all been internal. No nervousness showing, no tension apparent — nothing to show the world that he had called his daughter three times in the last six hours and received no response. That her handler had, according to a friend at the CIA, decided to take a little vacation time. That the CIA still had not recovered Will Tippin's body.

Which made for three missing people — two of them likely in search of the other one. She had been foolish to go to Vaughn, he thought, however trustworthy she thought he was. Someone at the CIA had compromised the safehouse, and as far as he was concerned, that made everyone at the CIA untrustworthy. Especially, he thought, when she could have gone to him. He did not allow himself to wonder why she hadn't.

Instead, he walked through SD-6 headquarters stone-faced, searching for an empty room — a place to think, to be alone. Successful, finally, in an abandoned office, and he sat and tried to guess where his daughter could have gone.

He was not alone for long, his silent reverie interrupted when Arvin Sloane slipped into the room, a manila envelope in his hand. The door clicked shut behind him.

"Jack, I've been looking for you. We need to talk." And then he reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a pricey-looking pen, and pulled at the tip until it emitted a quiet beep. He looked up at Jack, expression an insidious sort of clever. "What? You don't think I know what you've been doing with these, Jack? I know more than you think I know."

He paused, let that rattle through the air for a few moments. "For example, Jack, I know right now that you have no idea where Sydney is. I do, Jack — Berlin. But we have greater concerns right now."

Sloane tilted the envelope, let the contents spill out onto the desk. Pictures, he thought, staring at them. Pictures that would get his daughter killed, if she hadn't been already. They threw him, but not so much that he couldn't maintain his composure — internal and external. There was an age-old explanation for why two attractive young people would be leaving a hotel room, he thought, and he would run with that, and it would work. It had to.

"I assume this man is Sydney's CIA handler?" Jack's expression held, but his internal composure was gone. They were skipping steps here, he thought. There should have been more suspicion, fewer matter-of-fact statements of her "betrayal" of SD-6.

"Jack, I know you and Sydney work for the CIA." Perhaps his expression had been slipping, he thought. And besides, there was no point in holding it with that fact out. He tried instead to quell the dread rising in him. "I know, Jack, because I also work for the CIA."

That was not where he had expected this to go. Not at all. He wanted time to formulate a better question, but knew there wasn’t any. "How long?"

"Since the very beginning, Jack. The CIA wanted to place someone who could eventually rise to the top of the Alliance, make it crumble from within. And I am almost there. I have not broken cover in almost 20 years, but I need to tell you this." Sloane pointed to the third picture in the pile. "This man is not who Sydney thinks he is. I did not know the details of her case. I would have told you long ago if I had. This is Michael Vaughn, yes?"

Jack nodded slightly.

"He is a mole for The Man. Sydney went to Berlin to try to find Khasinau, Jack, and if she is with this Vaughn — if she trusts him — it will get her killed. You have to stop her."

Sloane's tale had been bizarre but believable up until that revelation. But now Jack found himself doubting the entire story, wondering just what Sloane's true agenda was. Where his allegiances really were. "What makes you possibly think I could trust you, after everything you've done?"

"You can't afford not to trust me, Jack. Your daughter would be dead by now — dead a thousand times over, Jack — if you couldn't trust me." Sloane glanced at his watch, and Jack knew they had to be running out of time. "I'll give you as much time as you need to go to Berlin, but I want you to stop by my office — give me 20 minutes — first. I'll give you something that may help. And one more thing, Jack — "

Beep.

He entered Sloane's office 20 minutes later, nothing on his face, or Sloane's, to indicate that the earlier revelations had occurred.

"Jack," Sloane said, proffering a file folder. "I was wondering if you might take a look at this, when you get a chance. I don't want Metzger to ruin our operation."

Jack walked up to the desk and took the file, labeled "Lukas Metzger." Metzger, he knew, was a K-Directorate operative based in Berlin. He spoke, voice even and terse — "I'll look into it" — before giving Sloane a brief nod and spinning on his foot to exit.

Fortunately, there were no distractions during the walk to his car, but it was long enough as it was — curiosity draining his patience. Still, he waited until he was safely inside the car, door shut and parking garage checked carefully for activity. Then, and only then, did he flip open the folder.

The first two pages were part of Metzger's file — standard intelligence — and their relatively banal appearance made the third even more shocking. A large, glossy black-and-white photograph, it showed a man, shot point-blank in the forehead. There were two more photographs after it — same man, same gunshot wound, different angles — and then a terse note from Sloane.

"By my best estimate, Michael Vaughn was recruited by Khasinau's organization at 17 or 18, with the purpose of placing him as a mole in the CIA. I am sorry to have to tell you this way, but you should know that Irina Derevko also works in Khasinau's organization, and the younger Vaughn does not believe that she killed his father. Instead, he believes his father was recruited by Khasinau and has been involved in a deep-cover mission since Derevko helped to fake his death. Obviously, these photographs prove otherwise, and I imagine they would go a long way in convincing Mr. Vaughn to switch his allegiances."

He flipped back to the photographs — more evidence of his wife's handiwork — one last time, wondering if Sydney had already discovered now any of the truths he had just learned. Then he snapped the folder shut, put the car in drive, his mind already on the mission ahead of him.

***

Will thought he had been locked in the tiny room for at least three days now, although he had no real way to gauge the passing of time. No windows, and it was a bit musty, so he assumed he was in the basement of somewhere. Where, was the real question, though, and he had no answer to that.

He hadn't been beaten since he had arrived here, and they fed him twice a day — boredom was currently his greatest aggravation. So when he heard voices approaching in the hallway outside, he stood, walked to the door and pressed his ear against it, hoping to glean some sort of knowledge about his situation, the woman's plans for him.

He had nicknamed her R.B. — Russian Bitch — in his mind, and it was her voice he heard most frequently, but he had not seen her since the first day. This time, he thought, she seemed downright pleasant.

"I am so glad you were able to make it for my opening," R.B. said. "It's good to see you again, and I hate to talk about business tonight, but I must ask you how things are progressing."

She paused, and then Will heard a male voice respond. "They're, ah, not progressing very well. Sydney, well, she's not going to be easy to turn. She's — "

That name sharpened his attention even more, and he pressed closer to the door. How, he wondered, could this man, and R.B., possibly know Sydney? And was she in danger?

" — you have already told me she is very headstrong. It was evident even when she was a child. But I am tired of hearing about my daughter second-hand. I want her here, do you understand that?"

Daughter, the next word that jumped out at Will, and he thought for a moment that it had to all be a bizarre coincidence. Sydney's mother had died when she was young, and certainly couldn't be R.B. But how many Sydneys could there be in whatever it was he was mixed up in? And after Paris, he had to admit to himself that that he wasn’t sure he knew anything at all about Sydney’s secret life.

There was silence for a moment, and then R.B. spoke again. "You have my permission to do whatever it takes to get my daughter on my side. Have I made myself clear?"

There was a long pause before the man spoke again. "I understand," was all he said.

Will sat, then, on the floor — they hadn't provided him anything beyond a blanket for comfort — and tried to make sense of what he had just heard. But it made no sense — nothing lately had — and the only thing he felt with any certainty was a deep sense of dread for his friend.

***

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