In The Air Tonight, Part 27

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Well if there was one thing to like about being in CIA custody, Sark thought, his hands behind his head while laying on his back on his metal tray of a bed, at least there was plenty of time to think. That, and, even though the accommodations weren't as spacious or comfortable as he was used to, he could sleep without the worry of having his head blown off. Ah, well, he thought, hazards of the trade, I suppose.

Spy work was a trade he was well used to, even at his relative young age. Like Alison, he'd been chosen to participate in a special summer camp when he was 7, except his had been in England: his homeland, or at least he thought it was. He couldn't be sure; he'd never been told. From what Irina had told him, he'd been specially chosen out of millions of children to participate in the program, and because he'd performed so well, she and her superiors had decided they needed to keep closer tabs on him, to mold him.

They had faked his death on the way home from the camp (four other camp children had 'died' as well, but he didn't remember who they were…it was so long ago and they were quickly separated). They told him that his old identity died that day and that he would never again use the name he had been born with. It was another lifetime ago for him…over the years of training (and probably mind conditioning, he supposed), he'd forgotten what his name used to be…a tactic he was sure they used so that he could never track down his real family. With no real family to go home to, he was truly stuck in the world of espionage.

From those first confusing, frightening weeks after the "accident", he had only one real memory: the kindness shown to him by Irina Derevko. She had soothed his fears, and held him on those nights when he was sick from missing his family. She had kept his other captors from being too harsh with him, allowing him to grieve for his old life before beginning anew.

From then on, Irina had explained, he would have a new name, a secret name, one that only she and the people who knew him from camp would know: Sark. No first name, no last name…just Sark. He never knew whether his name had significance (as in possibly the name of where he had been from), or if it was simply a name, and he'd been trained never to ask.

That fall, he had been enrolled in one of England's best boarding schools: Ludgrove; the same school where the English princes had attended. And with that school came another new name…the one that everyone else had come to know him by: Alistair Bryce-Jones; a thoroughly English name if there ever was one.

Since it was a school where only the wealthiest and most well bred boys went, it was not such a shock that his every need appeared taken care of, even though his 'parents' were never around. Sark always had plenty of money supplied to him so as to 'properly maintain his cover' of a well-to-do Brit. But while he had fit in easily and had been well liked by others, he himself had always felt a space, a difference between himself and the other boys, which was easily understood considering his peculiar circumstance. While he pretended at friendships, in fact, to him they were simply a means to an end, a way to get through those dark years without having to allow anyone to actually get close to him.

The same remained true when he was accepted to Eton College. His 'parents' were never seen, but it was not uncommon for the upper-crust children to go many months without seeing their families. He played the part with uncanny ease born from years of necessity.

The only time in his life that he seemed to enjoy during his formative years had been his summers. Instead of a summer holiday like the rest of his 'friends' from school, his summers consisted of six weeks of spy training, year after year. The good thing about that was that he was always in the company of Irina Derevko. She became a sort of surrogate mother to him, and she certainly took him under her wing as one of her brightest pupils. Once she explained something to him, he didn't need to be told twice. In truth, he would do anything to gain her favor, and often did.

Irina had handpicked him on several occasions for 'training missions', as early as age 13. These missions had been 'their little secret', something neither of them had ever revealed to the others attending the camps, nor told the other instructors about. He was a natural, she'd said, and almost as a reward, she treated him more like a son than a student. She had been the only bright spot in an otherwise very gray life.

It was no surprise then that once he'd graduated Eton that she'd contacted him to come to work for her. She explained that she was no longer affiliated with the others that had trained him and that this would involve different sorts of missions, but it hadn't mattered to him. All that mattered was that she had wanted him. Of all the kids she could have chosen, she had chosen him. He was grateful. She was the best spy he'd ever seen, and her choice meant that she believed he was one of the best as well. And, at times during the dark, lonely nights, he could almost admit to himself that he sometimes still felt like that 7-year-old boy clinging to the only mother figure he ever remembered having.

It was under Irina's employ that he had first met Alison Doren. She had also been a child spy taken from her parents and raised by the KGB. Irina had not been directly involved in her development the way she had been with his, but she had kept close tabs on Alison's development and made sure to bring her into her circle as soon as she'd graduated school. He and Alison soon found they had much in common and immediately formed a bond. Unlike him, she had been allowed to keep her old name, although she knew nothing about her parents either. The deep sense of loneliness they'd grown up with seemed to ease when they were together.

He was not sure if he could call what they had together love, since he wasn't sure if he truly knew what that was…but it was probably the closest thing to love he'd ever have the chance to experience. His chosen field had its risks, Irina had told him, and falling in love was a risk she had warned him not to take. He'd never asked the reason for her vehemence in that area, because just talking about it seemed to bring such sadness to her eyes, and he hated to see Irina sad.

Later, of course, he'd learned about her deep cover assignment: the one that had procured her and the KGB with the intel needed for the spy-child program she had developed and that he had been a part of. He'd learned of her husband and child, the ones she'd been forced to abandon. What the sadness in her eyes told him, in the moments of weakness she'd rarely show to others, was that the leaving had been harder for her than she ever wanted to admit. Maybe that was why she had been so kind to him over the years…out of guilt for what she had done to her own child.

Yes, Sydney Bristow… Sark thought, what a delightfully complex character. He was both envious of Sydney for being Irina's blood progeny, and sorry for her for not receiving the attention he himself had received. From what he'd been able to learn about her, both firsthand and otherwise, she was an incredible agent; her skills certainly on par with her mother's. Her marked abilities had been proven several times: her escape from the guards in the government building in Russia, her escape from the ice in Siberia and from the lab in Taipei…twice.

But Sydney Bristow had one marked difference from Irina: her inability to compartmentalize her emotions when it came to the people she cared about. It had been disgustingly easy to coerce her into complying with his plan to deliver Arvin Sloane into his hands. He was quite sure that her compliance had much less to do with the threat of the acid as it did with procuring the serum she had stolen. She had sold her soul in order to save a life…she'd been willing to destroy everything she had been working for—the destruction of SD-6 and the Alliance—just to save the life of her precious CIA 'handler'. What was it about this man, Sark wondered, that made him special enough to the famous Sydney Bristow to risk everything to save him while she wouldn't even give him, the one person closer to a sibling to her than she would ever know, one civil word?

The sound of the metal grates sliding apart pulled Sark from his thoughts. Sitting up, he watched as the last of the three gates opened and admitted none other than the very man on which he had been pondering. One look at Michael Vaughn's face told Sark that this was not going to be a pleasant encounter.

As the airlock on his cell door whooshed open, he stood, wanting to meet Agent Vaughn on more equal footing. "Well, Agent Vaughn," Sark began with his normal condescending tone, "to what do I owe the great honor of your presence?"

Vaughn's reply was to grab Sark by the arm, twist it quickly behind his back and slam him up against the glass wall of the cell…hard. "Since you seem to be so fond of games…" Vaughn sneered into Sark's ear, "I thought we could play one of our own. It's called 20 Questions."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that form of entertainment," Sark replied, his voice remaining calm and pleasant in the face of this latest indignity, "You'll need to explain it to me."

Vaughn yanked Sark's body away from the glass and shoved him in the direction of the metal bench. "Sit," he ordered.

Sark turned around to face Vaughn and crossed his arms in front of him. "I prefer to stand," he replied.

"That was not a request," Vaughn seethed, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Sit down, or trust me, I'll make you sit."

Reluctantly, Sark seated himself on the uncomfortable bench, waiting.

"The game I'm referring to," Vaughn explained, "goes like this: I ask you questions and you answer them. It's that simple. And trust me, you will want to answer them, because the alternative will not be pleasant."

"I am familiar with your laws, Mr. Vaughn," Sark replied. "I understand the rights that I have as a detainee of the US Government."

"Not anymore. Under the Patriot Act, you are considered a threat to National Security and therefore you have no rights, Sark. We can hold you forever if we want without ever charging you of a single crime. Rest assured that no one will be asking questions about your…treatment," Vaughn said, a threat clearly implied in his tone.

"What is it you wish to know?" Sark asked, with a touch of the typical British snobbishness he was known for.

"I want to know what you know about the second double, A. G. Doren," Vaughn answered.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," Sark lied outright. He'd be damned before he would give up Alison, especially to this man.

Vaughn grabbed the material of Sark's uniform shirtfront roughly and elbowed him in the side of the head hard. "Wrong answer," he snarled. "Try again. We already know Doren took the identity of Francine Calfo, and that she was placed there by Sloane. What else can you tell me about her?"

Shaking his head to clear it, Sark asked, "If you know all this, then why are you asking me? Why not ask this double you claim exists?"

"That would be impossible at this point. She's dead."

Sark's face blanched and he swallowed hard. He'd meant to only think it, but he was so shocked that he said it aloud. "Alison's dead!?"