Chapter Four

In the week and a half since their first meeting, there had been suspiciously little hostile activity. Sloane had not surfaced since he was captured leaving the SD-6 offices at half past eleven the morning of the CIA raid. Unsurprisingly, the surveillance footage at his home had been wiped.

There had been brief excitement when CCTV cameras had picked up McCullough at an airport in New Delhi, but that trail had quickly turned cold; he did not appear to have stayed in the country, and there were no leads as to where he had travelled to next.

Jack hadn’t expected Sark to turn up conveniently at an international airfield. He believed that the organisation headed by The Man was rich enough to own at least one private jet. They had done a search for all privately owned aircraft that landed in the New York area on the day of Sydney’s abduction, but no leads emerged. It was to be expected; The Man was good at covering his tracks.

Sark’s photograph had been added to every criminal database on the globe. The only thing there had been left to do was wait.

And wait they did.

There had been plenty to do; Marshall and Evans had been talking non-stop about Rambaldi artefacts. They had combed the SD-6 networks and pulled together a comprehensive list of artefacts in the care of the Alliance. Unfortunately, without the artefacts themselves it was incredibly difficult to determine their use.

“What about this?” Evans asked, pulling a photograph of an ampoule out of a file. “Some sort of medicine? A formula? An elixir?”

Marshall thought quickly. “I never got around to analysing that one,” he admitted. “Rambaldi did have a real interest in alchemy, but I don’t know… Without tests or even the artefact it’s supposed to be used with there’s not much we can say.”

“Its use must be documented somewhere,” Evans reasoned.

“Yeah,” Marshall agreed. “But without the manuscripts – or even if we did have it, it’d probably be in cipher text or machine code or just plain old allegory, like all those other alchemists…”

It was generally agreed that they were stuck.

Then – a stroke of luck. A car driven by Sark had roared through an intersection just after the lights turned. A traffic camera caught him, and a particularly vigilant traffic warden had identified him – in Rome.

A team was dispatched to Rome immediately. Within hours they were on a plane. Hours after landing, they were ensconced in a hotel room, watching as Marshall frantically searched databases for any Rambaldi artefacts rumoured to be held in Rome.

“Oh no.”

Richter and Blair barely looked up from their laptops. Jack was beginning to suspect they were becoming rapidly disillusioned with this assignment. He slammed down the phone on which he was talking to Interpol and went to Marshall’s side.

“What is it?”

Marshall looked up, his face white. “Rambaldi’s original code key. The DSR has one they’ve reverse engineered but there could be errors – this thing’s invaluable-”

“Marshall,” Jack interrupted. “Where is it?”

Marshall gulped. “The Vatican.”

Jack cursed. “They’ll never let us in there,” he muttered. “The best we can do is alert the Swiss Guards. Richter,” he barked. The female agent started and guiltily closed her computer. He caught a glimpse of Solitaire. “You speak Italian?”

She nodded.

“Then get on the phone to the Vatican. They need to be on alert for a break in.”

Abigail leapt to her feet, grabbed a file and went to the phone. She dialled and speed-talked her way through several connections. “Si! Questo è Richter agente della CIA. Riteniamo che ci sarà un furto. Controlla la tua zone di deposito - no, non siete in alcun pericolo! Non è necessario evacuare! Qualcosa sta per essere rubato!”

She pulled at her hair in frustration.

“Non c'è tempo per verificare con un superiore, è necessario trovare il tuo guardie!” she snapped.

She stopped talking and listened intently. It seemed like hours before there was any sound from the other end of the line. Jack could hear muffled, panicky voices.

Richter’s face fell. “Shit.” She hung up on the Swiss Guards unceremoniously and turned to face Jack.

“It’s already gone, isn’t it?” he asked.

She nodded. “One of the guards didn’t answer his radio. They found him dead in one of the storage rooms. The wall was blown out.”

“Damnit,” Jack breathed.

They had reached yet another dead end. Gloom descended on the assembled agents. They remained awkwardly inert, at a complete loss for what to do. Jack knew that he should be brainstorming ideas; giving the junior agents a new target, but he felt himself becoming overwhelmed by pessimism. He knew they wouldn’t catch Sark before he left Italy, if he hadn’t already gone. He exhaled. The chase was not succeeding. They would have to find some other method of locating Sark and his employers.

“W-wait,” Marshall said suddenly, shattering the heavy silence. “I think I got something.”

Jack was beside him in an instant. “You found him?”

“No,” Marshall admitted ruefully. “But I intercepted this communiqué. I think it’s from him; the time and origin correlate to his potential position…It’s encrypted, but if you’ll give me a sec…” Rapid clicking and typing punctuated his words. “There! It’s from him! He has the package. He’s going to deliver it to some guy called K-Khasinau.” Marshall looked up and beamed at Jack. “Who’s Khasinau?”

Jack looked grimly at the screen. “Our new target.”

…

Irina entered the library to find Sloane poring over the Rambaldi manuscript once more. He looked up at her approach.

“I spoke with Sark,” she said in answer to his unspoken query. “The retrieval was a success. He delivered the package to Khasinau. The code key should be on a secure server within the hour.”

Sloane nodded and returned his attention to the manuscript. “Good, good,” he muttered, his eyes roaming over a sheet of parchment.

Irina sat down across from him, watching him intently. “What have you found?”

Sloane glanced up at her briefly. “I believe there is a hidden message in this manuscript,” he stated.

Irina smirked, and brushed her hair behind her ear. “Knowing Rambaldi, there are probably hundreds.” She leaned in closer to inspect the documents.

Sloane carefully eased out a single sheet. “This page is blank,” he said, handing it to her. “It’s Page 47.”

She took it reverently. She held it by one edge and ran the fingers of her other hand gently over its surface, barely touching the fibres. “Page 47 is always significant,” she murmured. Her tone was absent; the sentence spoken for the sake of speaking.

Sloane shifted through the other pages of the manuscript. “I have been through this entire work looking for clues.” He put the pages down. “I have found nothing.”

Irina nodded vaguely. Her hand continued travelling above the surface of the page.

“I’ve thought of chemicals, liquids – fire,” Sloane continued. “But I cannot reconcile that Rambaldi would conceal his most significant page in his most significant work with something that any dilettante could stumble across through blind fumbling.”

“The ampoule.”

Sloane looked up at her sharply. She was staring through the page in her hand, her eyes alight, expression transported. He smiled. “You are a brilliant woman, Irina,” he said, reaching out and grasping her shoulder.

Irina shook off her reverie. She looked at the hand on her shoulder with the merest flicker of disgust. “Yes,” she said, her tone several degrees cooler. “I will have Rajesh retrieve it from storage.”

Sloane smiled at her genially, gave her shoulder a squeeze then let go.

Irina rose gracefully. “It’s time for me to see Sydney.”

Sloane nodded, his attention already back on the manuscript in front of him.

Irina raised an eyebrow. “I trust that you will remember your own appointments?”

“Of course,” he said, not looking up.

She spared the manuscript one last look, feeling the intoxicating pull of desire – for power, for knowledge, for answers – then turned away. She left the room and made her way to the East Wing.

…

Alice was sitting against the headboard of her neatly-made bed, reading a book. Irina smiled and went to sit in her usual armchair. Alice – she was so utterly different to Sydney that it only made sense to call her that – glanced up and regarded her impassively.

“What are you reading?” Irina asked, her voice soft in the quiet room.

Alice held the book up so she could see the cover. “Wuthering Heights.”

Irina nodded. Alice had quickly accepted that she was 27 years old; all it had taken was a look in the mirror. What had followed was a maturing process so rapid it passed like a montage in a movie. The days of adolescence were the worst; oddly, Irina found it more galling to hear a petulant teen in her grown daughter’s voice than a disinterested child.

Alice turned a page. She spent most of her days reading, and the past week had been devoted to the classics.

“Do you like it?” Irina asked.

Alice shrugged noncommittally, her attention focused on the book once more.

Irina leaned back in her seat and mused aloud, “It was always one of my favourites.” She glanced at Alice out of the corner of her eye. She had put the book down and was listening with as much intensity as she did anything.

She continued; “Not favourites, exactly… more, I feel a connection with it. It’s not necessarily a positive connection – I hate it, at times, but still… The love between Heathcliff and Cathy always struck a chord in me… Not that they were two halves of the same soul, no I found that nonsensical. A person must be complete within themselves to be worth anything.” She smiled. “No… it was the fact that after everything that happened… after all the distance between them, they still loved each other.” She looked over and met Alice’s gaze. “It’s a naïve view,” she said, her tone suddenly far more matter-of-fact. “Naïve, and totally unrealistic, but I find myself being drawn back to reading it time and again.”

Alice picked the book up, and rifled through it reflectively. “I could read it again,” she said hesitantly. “I think.”

Irina smiled. “I hope you do.”

Alice returned the smile waveringly; childish hope shone through her eyes and pierced Irina’s heart. She was not nearly as old as she looked.

“Put the book down, please,” she said softly.

Alice obeyed. She sat and regarded Irina, all traces of emotion wiped from her face.

“When you were a child,” Irina began, watching her closely. The effect was instantaneous. Alice’s eyes glazed over, and her mouth tightened. The response had been the same each time her childhood was brought up. “Alice,” she said sharply.

Alice’s eyes refocused. She raised her eyebrows slightly to indicate she was listening.

“I need you to pay attention.” Irina paused. Alice’s gaze never wavered. “I am going to ask you some questions; you will answer me. Is that clear?”

Alice nodded.

“Good,” Irina breathed. “Now tell me; you played an instrument as a child. What was it?”

“The piano,” Alice answered.

“Your father and I used to take you to a park. What did you do there?” Irina’s gaze remained laser-sharp on her daughter’s face.

Alice looked up, remembering. “I went on the carousel,” she replied.

“Good,” Irina said, nodding. “After I left… what happened?”

Alice answered in exactly the same tone. “I went to stay with Emily and Mr Sloane.”

“No.” Irina shook her head, her voice sharp. “Before that.”

Alice looked down. “I promised I wouldn’t say.”

Irina cocked her head. “Who did you promise?”

“Daddy.”

Irina frowned. Over the course of the conversation, Alice’s voice had lost its newfound maturity. “I am your mother; you can tell me anything.”

“No.” The force behind the word was astounding. “He told me not to.”

Irina leaned back in her chair. Alice’s voice never modulated far past a monotone, even when under questioning. She accepted everything she was told, and was clearly eager, in her way, to please. The answers so far had confirmed her theory, but she had one more.

An image came to her; grainy videotape footage of tiny children in buckled shoes and feathered headdresses. A five second snippet taken from far away, coupled with an extensive written analysis on a six year old’s behavioural patterns which included the average number of blinks per minute but not one detail on her costume.

“Before I left,” she said, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees again, “your teacher encouraged you to try out for your school’s Thanksgiving play... What part did you play?”

“I was a turkey,” Alice said simply.

A strange sound escaped her open mouth; half-laugh, half-sob, but expelled so quietly it seemed like a sigh. Irina fell back against the chair again, surprised by the intensity of her reaction. She opened her mouth to speak, not sure what she was about to say – and the door flew open with a bang, stunning her back into a professional demeanour.

“Ms Derevko,” the door’s guard said, looking apologetic. “Mr Sloane insisted on seeing you-”

He was cut off by Sloane himself forcing himself into the room. “Irina,” he breathed, his face alight with fervour. He held a page of the manuscript carefully with both hands gloved.

“Sloane,” she replied sharply. “Get out. I’ll talk to you in the hall.”

“But Irina-” his sentence was cut short by the guard wresting him from the room.

Irina looked over at Alice sadly. “I must go. Thank you.”

Alice was already picking up her book. She nodded vaguely, barely glancing up from her page, as Irina left the room.

…

He lunged at her the moment she entered the hallway. “Irina!”

She jerked her head sharply. “What,” she hissed, “were you thinking? Alice is in a very delicate state, and I would think that you-”

“I am sorry,” Sloane interrupted her, his voice contrite. “I was overcome. If I had been able to contain myself, I never would have jeopardised your progress with her. Especially considering what we know now.”

Irina’s gaze fell to the page in his hand. “You revealed the page.”

He smiled and nodded.

She held out a hand imperiously. Slowly – he was not without a sense of the dramatic – he placed it in her grip.

Her eyes widened as she took in the contents of the page. He watched her expression in fascination; the barest hints of shock, fear and delight were betrayed by the flickering of her facial muscles before she steeled herself and returned the page to him.

“The translation?” The question was low and urgent.

“A prophecy,” Sloane replied. “Referring to a woman known only as The Chosen One.” He recited from memory, “This woman here depicted will possess unseen marks, signs that she will be the one to bring forth my works; bind them with fury, a burning anger. Unless prevented, at vulgar cost, this woman will render the greatest power unto utter desolation.”

Irina nodded, staring blankly at the ground. “You’re sure it’s Sydney?”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” he began, “but to make entirely sure, there are other indicators. Genetic markers: the size of her heart; platelet counts; her DNA sequence.” He nodded towards the guard beside the door. “Your approval is required before we send for the doctor.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes, yes, of course.” The guard nodded once then exited the hall. She sighed. “The Chosen One.” It was a whisper.

Sloane nodded. There was no disbelief in her tone, only puzzlement. He had often felt as though Rambaldi’s endgame was a horizon he would never reach. Even now that he had the majority of the pieces; the puzzle of it all was still indecipherable.

“How is construction proceeding on the Mueller device?” he asked.

She blinked. “Well,” she replied. “The first model is almost complete. We will begin testing it shortly.”

“Good, good.” He nodded. “There was a message from Khasinau with the code key; he is tracking The Circumference as we speak.”

Irina raised her chin in acknowledgement. Without a word, the two of them turned towards the library.

Sloane sighed. “I don’t feel comfortable concentrating on the Mueller device alone,” he admitted. “There are so many other avenues to pursue, and now there is another…” He tilted his head to the side, considering. “The Chosen One.”

Irina glanced at him. “The device is mine, Arvin.”

He looked at her sharply.

She met his gaze. “I can feel it. I am drawn to it. Clearly, you are not.” She turned to open the library doors. “The question is; to what are you?”

Sloane approached the table, across which ancient manuscripts were still strewn. He picked up a page at random, and then placed it down. He repeated the process absent-mindedly, lost in thought. His fingers closed over the edge of a sheet; he paused, and lifted it out of its pile. The centre of the page was missing. He smiled, and looked over at Irina. “Il Dire.”

She nodded, a pleased smile flitting across her features. “Then we have our goals. And we will keep each other appraised of our progress.”

Sloane nodded as he began sorting through the pages once more. “Yes,” he agreed. “Of course.”

A/N: Yes, I am sucky. I'm also sorry. Here is this chapter... I don't want to promise anything about the next one, except that I have vowed to finish this story. One day. ONE DAY.

Italian dialogue courtesy of Google Translate. Except ‘Si’. That I did on my own.

Abigail: This is Agent Richter of the CIA. We think there's going to be a burglary. Check your storage areas - no, you're not in any danger! You don't need to evacuate! Something is going to be stolen!

There is no time to check with a superior, just find your guards!