Inquiry
Title: Inquiry
Rating: PG
Summary: Lauren's first encounter with Mr. Sark while he's being held with the CIA. Inspired by A Missing Link.
Washington D.C.
"Mr. Sark. My name is Lauren Reed, of the NSC. I'm here to interrogate you on the subject of your personal arms trades in the past three years."
She catches his eyes, searching her, taking in her face.
He has to be so young, she thinks, noting his tousled blond hair and seemingly innocent clear blue eyes. Innocent, she almost laughs to herself. Not a word one would use to describe a sociopathic assassin. Perhaps it was this supposed innocence that had played a part in his rapid career advancement.
"Ms. Reed?" His voice cuts into her thoughts. "If you've finished your initial - assessment, please proceed with the interrogation. It's not something I would like to prolong."
She colors a little, seeing the amused, slight smirk resting on his face. A million responses rise to her lips, and she forces them all down, knowing all too well that his aim is to get a rise out of her.
She clears her throat, pulls out a chair, and takes a seat, facing Sark at the next table.
"I would expect you already have a file on this," he remarks.
"We feel it's incomplete. We would appreciate it if you were cooperative in filling in the blanks."
"It's not as though I have much choice, is it?" She doesn't answer. "If you would allow me a legal pad and pen, both of our jobs would become much easier."
Lauren turns and nods to one of the men by the doorway. She turns back to Sark, who is now looking at her with some curiosity.
Lauren attempts to look nonchalant and turns her attention to the sheets of paper in front of her. Mentally she goes over all the points she has to make, the questions she has to ask. Somehow they seem to have become lost and scattered in her memory.
"Carlton."
She looks up, startled. "Pardon?"
"You were there, were you not? Carlton Preparatory."
"How do you . . . know?" she asks, her interest piqued in spite of herself.
"One learns to tell the difference," he says simply. His eyes shift to the door. Lauren turns and sees the man, back with the supplies. She rises and walks over, thanks the man, and brings the pad and pen to Sark. She returns to her seat.
"Were you a student there?" she asks casually.
"I never was. However, the school was a subject of some discussion where I attended. Now, if we could commence the interrogation, please."
You brought it up, Lauren thinks, the blush creeping back onto her face. She doesn't consider herself to be easily moved. "We shall. And, please, this time, try to stay on topic."
"I wasn't aware we had any specific topic."
"Post June 30th, 2000," Lauren begins brusquely. "Describe your actions regarding your dealings with former Soviet leaders."
"No need to shout," he murmurs, the pen scratching on the legal pad.
Lauren glances up at him. That had come out a bit loud, she realizes. Before she can respond, she sees that one-quarter of the page is already filled.
She raises her eyebrows. Innocence. It was almost an antonym of the man.
After several more minutes and several more pages, he looks up, his face one of resigned boredom.
"Describe your dealings in biological weapon trades, post June 30th, 2000."
Several more questions are asked, resulting in more lengthy scribbling. It takes Lauren a little longer than she first anticipated. He will be returning to L.A. in the next two hours; she can't afford to go overtime.
He sets his pen down. Immediately she says, "Thank you. Your assistance is appreciated."
There is no way to avoid his gaze. "It was a pleasure getting to know you," he says with perfect seriousness.
Without answering she rises, straightens her coat, and picks up her papers. She takes the legal pad and pen, and starts out the door.
The guard looks almost amused. She purses her lips and passes by, almost slamming the door behind her.
Rifling through what appears to be a half-full legal pad, her eyes catch the last page. Scanning it, sighing, and shaking her head slightly, she tears it out, folds it, and sticks it in her pocket.
Ms. Reed -
I rather enjoyed your performance in your school's rendition of The Three Bears. You made a phenomal Goldilocks. It was quite a memorable visit. Perhaps we can reminisce upon our next meeting.
- Sark
* * *
Lauren drops her purse and keys on the counter, kicks off her shoes and lets her coat slide off. She sighs.
She surveys her apartment. It’s a good size, the theme coolly neutral - none of the bright tackiness she despises.
After a brief pause, she sets off for the cabinet. It holds all her old awards, swimming trophies, certificates, art projects she couldn’t throw away, photographs, yearbooks . . .
She takes out one, and it falls open to a tiny, black-and-white photo of eleven-year-old self. She turns the pages slowly - page 48 - “Winter Play.”
There is Robbie, and Karen, and Elyse, and Stephen - there she was in the center, her hair in pigtails and her face drawn in horror at the sight of the home comers.
Lauren smiles wryly at the memory. She had worked so hard for that part, and Karen had wanted it too. Karen - her best friend. Karen the brunette. Their friendship hadn’t been quite the same after that - they hadn’t kept contact when Lauren went back to the States.
She tries to remember - which schools had come to see it? If Sark had been there, he couldn’t have been more than seven. She vaguely remembers some smaller schools coming.
Leaving the yearbook out, she closes the door and goes for her cell phone.
She has a clue to Sark’s past. And she is not going to stop until she gets some answers.
* * *
“Yes . . . yes, thank you. Thank you very much.” She presses END and drops the phone on the coffee table.
In an attempt to avoid the time difference, she had called Carlton at one in the morning and hoped it was enough. Her results are satisfactory so far - they are searching the records, under the mistaken impression that Lauren has taken up scrapbooking.
She doesn’t want the office involved. This is her project, and she’ll be the one to finish it. And, if it proves valuable, she’ll hand it over.
They’ve promised to call her back, so she forces herself to stay awake with heavily sugared coffee and an old Mary Higgins Clark she loves. Her guilty pleasure.
She takes a long sip, and her sleeve catches on the lamp, causing the hot liquid to splash onto the page.
She sighs heavily, sets down the mug and tries to scrub off the rapidly spreading stain with a blue tissue.
No wonder you weren’t field-rated, she thinks, irritated. You can’t even hold a cup of coffee straight.
She wishes she was anywhere but here - alone, by herself on Friday night.
There are plenty of guys in the world. They just don’t seem notice her.
Except - well, Sark had noticed, hadn’t he? He’d recognized her face, her name, her past. But he had sounded like he wanted to leave - then again -
The rational side of her brain kicks in, and she lays her head back on the sofa.
Reed, she thinks grimly to herself, using Robbie’s old nickname for her, you must really, really be desperate.
But he’d noticed. And even Lauren’s rational side can’t deny that.
Her phone rings. She sits up and grabs the phone. “Hello?”
* * *
Brownstone, Harrisfield, Marston.
Lauren’s pulled up a few old class records for Brownstone and Marston and is skimming along, half-hoping to see a child with the surname “Sark” somewhere on the lists.
Lindsey, one of her superiors, passes by her, stops, and speaks. “Reed. We’re going to need you again. Change of plans, it’s been decided Sark’s interrogations will all take place here. We’ll need you in twenty minutes.” He slaps a folder down, just missing her surprised face.
She isn’t sure whether to call it good fortune or sad fate. “Why was this decision made?”
“Classified. Start preparing.” He walks away, leaving Lauren staring at a slightly bulky folder. She opens it and sees her name in bold: LAUREN REED, OFFICIAL INTERROGATOR.
So what was this? A promotion?
She doesn’t know. But it definitely means she’ll be seeing a lot more of Sark.
She glances at the clock. She has time for a quick trip to the store.
* * *
“Mr. Sark. I’m now the head of your investigation, the rest of which will take place here in Washington, D.C.”
His eyes are a charming shade of blue. “Am I to take it you pushed to earn this position?”
She gives him a look.
“And has my previous intel proved valuable?”
She senses a double meaning behind his words. She answers smoothly, “We’re following up on several leads - nothing definite yet.”
Slowly he nods.
Lauren walks over and places a pen and a brand-new legal pad in front of him. “This one’s college-ruled.”
“Thank you.”
When Lauren flips through the notes on her way back through the hall, she finds the marked page:
Brownstone
Harrisfield
Marston
And then in new ink:
1977
1982
* * *
1977, she decides immediately, is the year of Sark’s birth. Making him a mere five years old the year of her play - 1982.
1982 - it seems the far more significant year. Lauren is sure there has to be something more to it.
Marston, she discovers, never accepted children younger than seven. She is left with Brownstone and Harrisfield.
She’s gradually forming a picture of Sark’s past, but what Lauren least understands is why. Why he would give her these suggestions, these hints, these clues . . . she can only speculate that there is something he wants.
* * *
Lauren takes a flight to England on Sunday. She feels slightly excited, despite the jet lag after her arrival - she’s always wanted to experience the thrill of being a Nancy Drew, or a Harriet the Spy - albeit one about thirty years old, she thinks, smiling.
“I apologize if I’m disrupting any of your classes,” Lauren says, facing the head of Harrisfield Academy.
“Oh, no, not at all - how can I help you?” the woman asks pleasantly.
“A friend of mine is putting together a memoir, and as I’m here on business, she asked if I could do her a favor. She wants the 1982 yearbook for a visual touch - she would really appreciate it if I made her a few copies.” Lauren holds her breath.
The woman only looks thoughtful - “1982, you said?”
Lauren, with relief, nods, and follows the headmistress into her office.
* * *
Repeating the scenario at Brownstone, she heads back to her hotel room with satisfaction.
She spreads out the pages of grainy black-and-white photos, looking for any sign of a small, blond child with a crooked smile. As far as the NSC and CIA’s tests have indicated, Sark’s features have never been surgically altered.
Lauren finally narrows it down to one child from Brownstone, Nicholas Rowan, and one from Harrisfield, Evan Keifer.
* * *
She’s spoken to Evan Keifer’s wife - he’s CEO of a fairly well-known electric corporation.
But by Tuesday, she hasn’t been able to reach anyone by the name of Nicholas Rowan. After 1982, he seems to have vanished completely. In addition to that, Lauren can’t find much of a file on him. Nothing says he left, or where to. Anything remotely factual about him seems to have been carefully erased.
So, Lauren wonders, who were his parents? When had he become a operative of Irina Derevko? And where had the name “Sark” originated from?
The lack of leads and abound of questions frustrates her. She’s scheduled to meet Sark Thursday.
The strange thing is, Lauren’s almost anticipating it.
* * *
“How is the investigation coming?”
Lauren, her hands resting on her binder, replies coolly, “We’re following a promising lead now - I can’t go into detail. You’ll understand, of course.”
Lauren’s having a hard time hearing herself secretly collaborating, with a terrorist, right under the NSC’s nose. But then, she rationalizes, she isn’t really collaborating - she still has the power to turn him in whenever she wants.
”You are familiar with the name Sydney Bristow,” she begins.
Sark cocks his head, for once, seeming vaguely interested in the topic. “Yes.”
As Lauren recites the details of Bristow’s death, her interest in the agent revives itself. She’s heard all about it, of course - it was the talk of the office for nearly a month. The woman was the CIA’s best field agent, it was said.
She sees Sark, eyebrows creased, looking thoughtful. “How is her death being handled?”
Lauren replies, “I was just getting to that. The CIA has decided-”
“I don’t mean among the agency. I mean among her colleagues, her fellow agents, her friends. Her father.”
Lauren matches his eyes. “Considering your prolific record in hired murder, I wasn’t aware that you would care about the emotional aspect of her death.”
“I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward.”
Lauren frowns slightly, and, changing the subject, says, “Describe your first meeting with Agent Bristow.”
* * *
She sticks her keys in the ignition without starting the car, and she takes a long sip of her latte.
She is disappointed - the last page of the notebook hadn’t held any sort of message. Instead, she reviews their conversation over and over in her head.
The one part that sticks out most clearly in her head is this: “I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward.” It is definitely an oddly phrased sentence. And it’s also uncharacteristic - Sark’s grammar and sentence structure is nearly flawless.
It stays in Lauren’s head all day, and all the next day, until she is approached by Lindsay at her desk and is told she’s being moved to the Sydney Bristow interrogation.
Lauren stares at him in disbelief. “Why?”
Lindsay looks surprised. “Ms. Reed, this is a promotion. And unless you’re suggesting you have some sort of personal attachment to Mr. Sark-”
“No, sir, I don’t. I was just startled.”
“Okay, then. Tomorrow you’ll be speaking with Jack Bristow and Michael Vaughn. Get prepared.” He walks off.
At home, she looks at the yearbook pages again. She’s at a dead end, and she knows it.
And suddenly, without any forewarning, it hits her. He has given her a clue after all.
She lets the revelation sink in a little, before resuming her thoughts.
She has no way of knowing for certain, of course - she isn’t even sure of why he’s told her.
But she is certain that she knows what he wants. She is certain she is once again, heading in the right direction.
Except for one simple problem. Lauren will likely never meet Sark again.
* * *
[The following chapter takes place following Sark’s release from CIA custody, post-Succession.]
Several Months Later
On an impulse, Lauren takes her latte to one of the tables by the piano player, sits down, and breathes in the combination of caramel and hazelnut coffee before sipping.
She doesn’t feel like going home yet - she needs this time for herself, before going home, to see Michael. She wonders what she’ll say when she tells him she’s met Sydney Bristow for the first time. She wonders what he’ll do. She wonders what he’ll say.
She watches the deft fingers of the man fly across the piano. She is so entranced that it takes a few seconds to notice the man directly across from her.
“Ms. Reed - pleasure to see you outside the office.”
Lauren almost drops the cup. She manages to cough out, “You do realize what a compromising situation this is, don’t you?”
Sark offers her half a smirk. “And of course, I’ve provided for it. You can’t use your cell phone - it was disabled, as were the others in the building - there are some of my own people armed, outside, more than ready to fire at you if you exit within forty-five minutes, and the piano player is not really a piano player.”
Lauren darts a sharp, subtle glance at the older man seated on the velvet bench. With another look at Sark’s face, she remarks, “Nice bluff.”
“Now, Ms. Reed,” he says, with almost a full smirk, “down to business. What did you find out with the information I gave you?”
Lauren takes a deep breath and looks at him squarely. “Before I tell you a word, I would appreciate an explanation.”
“Very well then.” He looks to be composing himself, and begins, “I’ll try to make this as clear as it’s possible to do.
“I was kidnapped in 1982 at the age of five, from Brownstone, and I was forced to begin training as an agent for a certain rogue Russian group. Part of the training was the removal of memories of our families and homes. You can understand, perhaps, why this subject was never a concern for me, until about two years ago - my conscious mind presented a memory of someone named Aleksandra, only the name.”
Lauren waits for him to continue.
“I began a search for answers, on my own time - until I was captured by the CIA, thus halting my investigation. The reason I remembered your name - Lauren Reed - was because I was taken the night after viewing the performance. I had kept the program - it was my only entertainment for several days.”
Lauren can see the boy in the photograph - the one with the innocent eyes and tousled hair - alone in a room, reading a small white paper and memorizing the names just for something to do.
“When I met you for my interrogation, aside from recognizing you, I had an instinct, almost, that you might be of use in finding Aleksandra. I had no idea, quite honestly, when I would be out of prison, if ever. So I relayed to you what I already knew and just hoped you might follow through with it.”
She has only started to realize the unseen role she’s played in his life, and how long it’s taken to notice. Slowly, she says, “Aleksandra Rowan was the older sister of Nicholas Rowan. Rowan was not their real surname - it was, in fact, Lazarey. Their father had wished to secure their identities, due to their Romanov ties.”
Sark looks at her curiously. “You use the past tense - for a different reason?”
“When I discovered the existence of your sister, I searched a bit more, to find her current status - not knowing about the Lazarey connection until recently. I assume you didn’t know either.”
“True. Go on.”
“Aleksandra Rowan was murdered. Without a will, all her shares in the inheritance would pass over to you after Andrian Lazarey’s death.” Making it $800 million total. “There was a dead trail after that. No ideas as to who might have killed her or why.”
“And I suspect, if you had persisted, it might have been traced back to the Covenant. Mere speculation on my part.”
They sit in silence together as the piano plays a few more lines and comes to a finish.
Sark looks thoughtful and almost serious as he rises with his steaming black coffee. “I appreciate it, Ms. Reed, I do. I owe you a favor.” He glances over his shoulder. “Your drink’s been paid for. Good afternoon.”
Lauren gives him an imperceptible but curiously sincere nod.
She watches him as he leaves the café, and, sighing with the knowledge she’ll be here for the next three-quarters of an hour, she turns to watch the piano player, just beginning a new song.
End.
Rating: PG
Summary: Lauren's first encounter with Mr. Sark while he's being held with the CIA. Inspired by A Missing Link.
Washington D.C.
"Mr. Sark. My name is Lauren Reed, of the NSC. I'm here to interrogate you on the subject of your personal arms trades in the past three years."
She catches his eyes, searching her, taking in her face.
He has to be so young, she thinks, noting his tousled blond hair and seemingly innocent clear blue eyes. Innocent, she almost laughs to herself. Not a word one would use to describe a sociopathic assassin. Perhaps it was this supposed innocence that had played a part in his rapid career advancement.
"Ms. Reed?" His voice cuts into her thoughts. "If you've finished your initial - assessment, please proceed with the interrogation. It's not something I would like to prolong."
She colors a little, seeing the amused, slight smirk resting on his face. A million responses rise to her lips, and she forces them all down, knowing all too well that his aim is to get a rise out of her.
She clears her throat, pulls out a chair, and takes a seat, facing Sark at the next table.
"I would expect you already have a file on this," he remarks.
"We feel it's incomplete. We would appreciate it if you were cooperative in filling in the blanks."
"It's not as though I have much choice, is it?" She doesn't answer. "If you would allow me a legal pad and pen, both of our jobs would become much easier."
Lauren turns and nods to one of the men by the doorway. She turns back to Sark, who is now looking at her with some curiosity.
Lauren attempts to look nonchalant and turns her attention to the sheets of paper in front of her. Mentally she goes over all the points she has to make, the questions she has to ask. Somehow they seem to have become lost and scattered in her memory.
"Carlton."
She looks up, startled. "Pardon?"
"You were there, were you not? Carlton Preparatory."
"How do you . . . know?" she asks, her interest piqued in spite of herself.
"One learns to tell the difference," he says simply. His eyes shift to the door. Lauren turns and sees the man, back with the supplies. She rises and walks over, thanks the man, and brings the pad and pen to Sark. She returns to her seat.
"Were you a student there?" she asks casually.
"I never was. However, the school was a subject of some discussion where I attended. Now, if we could commence the interrogation, please."
You brought it up, Lauren thinks, the blush creeping back onto her face. She doesn't consider herself to be easily moved. "We shall. And, please, this time, try to stay on topic."
"I wasn't aware we had any specific topic."
"Post June 30th, 2000," Lauren begins brusquely. "Describe your actions regarding your dealings with former Soviet leaders."
"No need to shout," he murmurs, the pen scratching on the legal pad.
Lauren glances up at him. That had come out a bit loud, she realizes. Before she can respond, she sees that one-quarter of the page is already filled.
She raises her eyebrows. Innocence. It was almost an antonym of the man.
After several more minutes and several more pages, he looks up, his face one of resigned boredom.
"Describe your dealings in biological weapon trades, post June 30th, 2000."
Several more questions are asked, resulting in more lengthy scribbling. It takes Lauren a little longer than she first anticipated. He will be returning to L.A. in the next two hours; she can't afford to go overtime.
He sets his pen down. Immediately she says, "Thank you. Your assistance is appreciated."
There is no way to avoid his gaze. "It was a pleasure getting to know you," he says with perfect seriousness.
Without answering she rises, straightens her coat, and picks up her papers. She takes the legal pad and pen, and starts out the door.
The guard looks almost amused. She purses her lips and passes by, almost slamming the door behind her.
Rifling through what appears to be a half-full legal pad, her eyes catch the last page. Scanning it, sighing, and shaking her head slightly, she tears it out, folds it, and sticks it in her pocket.
Ms. Reed -
I rather enjoyed your performance in your school's rendition of The Three Bears. You made a phenomal Goldilocks. It was quite a memorable visit. Perhaps we can reminisce upon our next meeting.
- Sark
* * *
Lauren drops her purse and keys on the counter, kicks off her shoes and lets her coat slide off. She sighs.
She surveys her apartment. It’s a good size, the theme coolly neutral - none of the bright tackiness she despises.
After a brief pause, she sets off for the cabinet. It holds all her old awards, swimming trophies, certificates, art projects she couldn’t throw away, photographs, yearbooks . . .
She takes out one, and it falls open to a tiny, black-and-white photo of eleven-year-old self. She turns the pages slowly - page 48 - “Winter Play.”
There is Robbie, and Karen, and Elyse, and Stephen - there she was in the center, her hair in pigtails and her face drawn in horror at the sight of the home comers.
Lauren smiles wryly at the memory. She had worked so hard for that part, and Karen had wanted it too. Karen - her best friend. Karen the brunette. Their friendship hadn’t been quite the same after that - they hadn’t kept contact when Lauren went back to the States.
She tries to remember - which schools had come to see it? If Sark had been there, he couldn’t have been more than seven. She vaguely remembers some smaller schools coming.
Leaving the yearbook out, she closes the door and goes for her cell phone.
She has a clue to Sark’s past. And she is not going to stop until she gets some answers.
* * *
“Yes . . . yes, thank you. Thank you very much.” She presses END and drops the phone on the coffee table.
In an attempt to avoid the time difference, she had called Carlton at one in the morning and hoped it was enough. Her results are satisfactory so far - they are searching the records, under the mistaken impression that Lauren has taken up scrapbooking.
She doesn’t want the office involved. This is her project, and she’ll be the one to finish it. And, if it proves valuable, she’ll hand it over.
They’ve promised to call her back, so she forces herself to stay awake with heavily sugared coffee and an old Mary Higgins Clark she loves. Her guilty pleasure.
She takes a long sip, and her sleeve catches on the lamp, causing the hot liquid to splash onto the page.
She sighs heavily, sets down the mug and tries to scrub off the rapidly spreading stain with a blue tissue.
No wonder you weren’t field-rated, she thinks, irritated. You can’t even hold a cup of coffee straight.
She wishes she was anywhere but here - alone, by herself on Friday night.
There are plenty of guys in the world. They just don’t seem notice her.
Except - well, Sark had noticed, hadn’t he? He’d recognized her face, her name, her past. But he had sounded like he wanted to leave - then again -
The rational side of her brain kicks in, and she lays her head back on the sofa.
Reed, she thinks grimly to herself, using Robbie’s old nickname for her, you must really, really be desperate.
But he’d noticed. And even Lauren’s rational side can’t deny that.
Her phone rings. She sits up and grabs the phone. “Hello?”
* * *
Brownstone, Harrisfield, Marston.
Lauren’s pulled up a few old class records for Brownstone and Marston and is skimming along, half-hoping to see a child with the surname “Sark” somewhere on the lists.
Lindsey, one of her superiors, passes by her, stops, and speaks. “Reed. We’re going to need you again. Change of plans, it’s been decided Sark’s interrogations will all take place here. We’ll need you in twenty minutes.” He slaps a folder down, just missing her surprised face.
She isn’t sure whether to call it good fortune or sad fate. “Why was this decision made?”
“Classified. Start preparing.” He walks away, leaving Lauren staring at a slightly bulky folder. She opens it and sees her name in bold: LAUREN REED, OFFICIAL INTERROGATOR.
So what was this? A promotion?
She doesn’t know. But it definitely means she’ll be seeing a lot more of Sark.
She glances at the clock. She has time for a quick trip to the store.
* * *
“Mr. Sark. I’m now the head of your investigation, the rest of which will take place here in Washington, D.C.”
His eyes are a charming shade of blue. “Am I to take it you pushed to earn this position?”
She gives him a look.
“And has my previous intel proved valuable?”
She senses a double meaning behind his words. She answers smoothly, “We’re following up on several leads - nothing definite yet.”
Slowly he nods.
Lauren walks over and places a pen and a brand-new legal pad in front of him. “This one’s college-ruled.”
“Thank you.”
When Lauren flips through the notes on her way back through the hall, she finds the marked page:
Brownstone
Harrisfield
Marston
And then in new ink:
1977
1982
* * *
1977, she decides immediately, is the year of Sark’s birth. Making him a mere five years old the year of her play - 1982.
1982 - it seems the far more significant year. Lauren is sure there has to be something more to it.
Marston, she discovers, never accepted children younger than seven. She is left with Brownstone and Harrisfield.
She’s gradually forming a picture of Sark’s past, but what Lauren least understands is why. Why he would give her these suggestions, these hints, these clues . . . she can only speculate that there is something he wants.
* * *
Lauren takes a flight to England on Sunday. She feels slightly excited, despite the jet lag after her arrival - she’s always wanted to experience the thrill of being a Nancy Drew, or a Harriet the Spy - albeit one about thirty years old, she thinks, smiling.
“I apologize if I’m disrupting any of your classes,” Lauren says, facing the head of Harrisfield Academy.
“Oh, no, not at all - how can I help you?” the woman asks pleasantly.
“A friend of mine is putting together a memoir, and as I’m here on business, she asked if I could do her a favor. She wants the 1982 yearbook for a visual touch - she would really appreciate it if I made her a few copies.” Lauren holds her breath.
The woman only looks thoughtful - “1982, you said?”
Lauren, with relief, nods, and follows the headmistress into her office.
* * *
Repeating the scenario at Brownstone, she heads back to her hotel room with satisfaction.
She spreads out the pages of grainy black-and-white photos, looking for any sign of a small, blond child with a crooked smile. As far as the NSC and CIA’s tests have indicated, Sark’s features have never been surgically altered.
Lauren finally narrows it down to one child from Brownstone, Nicholas Rowan, and one from Harrisfield, Evan Keifer.
* * *
She’s spoken to Evan Keifer’s wife - he’s CEO of a fairly well-known electric corporation.
But by Tuesday, she hasn’t been able to reach anyone by the name of Nicholas Rowan. After 1982, he seems to have vanished completely. In addition to that, Lauren can’t find much of a file on him. Nothing says he left, or where to. Anything remotely factual about him seems to have been carefully erased.
So, Lauren wonders, who were his parents? When had he become a operative of Irina Derevko? And where had the name “Sark” originated from?
The lack of leads and abound of questions frustrates her. She’s scheduled to meet Sark Thursday.
The strange thing is, Lauren’s almost anticipating it.
* * *
“How is the investigation coming?”
Lauren, her hands resting on her binder, replies coolly, “We’re following a promising lead now - I can’t go into detail. You’ll understand, of course.”
Lauren’s having a hard time hearing herself secretly collaborating, with a terrorist, right under the NSC’s nose. But then, she rationalizes, she isn’t really collaborating - she still has the power to turn him in whenever she wants.
”You are familiar with the name Sydney Bristow,” she begins.
Sark cocks his head, for once, seeming vaguely interested in the topic. “Yes.”
As Lauren recites the details of Bristow’s death, her interest in the agent revives itself. She’s heard all about it, of course - it was the talk of the office for nearly a month. The woman was the CIA’s best field agent, it was said.
She sees Sark, eyebrows creased, looking thoughtful. “How is her death being handled?”
Lauren replies, “I was just getting to that. The CIA has decided-”
“I don’t mean among the agency. I mean among her colleagues, her fellow agents, her friends. Her father.”
Lauren matches his eyes. “Considering your prolific record in hired murder, I wasn’t aware that you would care about the emotional aspect of her death.”
“I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward.”
Lauren frowns slightly, and, changing the subject, says, “Describe your first meeting with Agent Bristow.”
* * *
She sticks her keys in the ignition without starting the car, and she takes a long sip of her latte.
She is disappointed - the last page of the notebook hadn’t held any sort of message. Instead, she reviews their conversation over and over in her head.
The one part that sticks out most clearly in her head is this: “I would just like you to remember - a little effort keeps some agents normal during remembrance afterward.” It is definitely an oddly phrased sentence. And it’s also uncharacteristic - Sark’s grammar and sentence structure is nearly flawless.
It stays in Lauren’s head all day, and all the next day, until she is approached by Lindsay at her desk and is told she’s being moved to the Sydney Bristow interrogation.
Lauren stares at him in disbelief. “Why?”
Lindsay looks surprised. “Ms. Reed, this is a promotion. And unless you’re suggesting you have some sort of personal attachment to Mr. Sark-”
“No, sir, I don’t. I was just startled.”
“Okay, then. Tomorrow you’ll be speaking with Jack Bristow and Michael Vaughn. Get prepared.” He walks off.
At home, she looks at the yearbook pages again. She’s at a dead end, and she knows it.
And suddenly, without any forewarning, it hits her. He has given her a clue after all.
She lets the revelation sink in a little, before resuming her thoughts.
She has no way of knowing for certain, of course - she isn’t even sure of why he’s told her.
But she is certain that she knows what he wants. She is certain she is once again, heading in the right direction.
Except for one simple problem. Lauren will likely never meet Sark again.
* * *
[The following chapter takes place following Sark’s release from CIA custody, post-Succession.]
Several Months Later
On an impulse, Lauren takes her latte to one of the tables by the piano player, sits down, and breathes in the combination of caramel and hazelnut coffee before sipping.
She doesn’t feel like going home yet - she needs this time for herself, before going home, to see Michael. She wonders what she’ll say when she tells him she’s met Sydney Bristow for the first time. She wonders what he’ll do. She wonders what he’ll say.
She watches the deft fingers of the man fly across the piano. She is so entranced that it takes a few seconds to notice the man directly across from her.
“Ms. Reed - pleasure to see you outside the office.”
Lauren almost drops the cup. She manages to cough out, “You do realize what a compromising situation this is, don’t you?”
Sark offers her half a smirk. “And of course, I’ve provided for it. You can’t use your cell phone - it was disabled, as were the others in the building - there are some of my own people armed, outside, more than ready to fire at you if you exit within forty-five minutes, and the piano player is not really a piano player.”
Lauren darts a sharp, subtle glance at the older man seated on the velvet bench. With another look at Sark’s face, she remarks, “Nice bluff.”
“Now, Ms. Reed,” he says, with almost a full smirk, “down to business. What did you find out with the information I gave you?”
Lauren takes a deep breath and looks at him squarely. “Before I tell you a word, I would appreciate an explanation.”
“Very well then.” He looks to be composing himself, and begins, “I’ll try to make this as clear as it’s possible to do.
“I was kidnapped in 1982 at the age of five, from Brownstone, and I was forced to begin training as an agent for a certain rogue Russian group. Part of the training was the removal of memories of our families and homes. You can understand, perhaps, why this subject was never a concern for me, until about two years ago - my conscious mind presented a memory of someone named Aleksandra, only the name.”
Lauren waits for him to continue.
“I began a search for answers, on my own time - until I was captured by the CIA, thus halting my investigation. The reason I remembered your name - Lauren Reed - was because I was taken the night after viewing the performance. I had kept the program - it was my only entertainment for several days.”
Lauren can see the boy in the photograph - the one with the innocent eyes and tousled hair - alone in a room, reading a small white paper and memorizing the names just for something to do.
“When I met you for my interrogation, aside from recognizing you, I had an instinct, almost, that you might be of use in finding Aleksandra. I had no idea, quite honestly, when I would be out of prison, if ever. So I relayed to you what I already knew and just hoped you might follow through with it.”
She has only started to realize the unseen role she’s played in his life, and how long it’s taken to notice. Slowly, she says, “Aleksandra Rowan was the older sister of Nicholas Rowan. Rowan was not their real surname - it was, in fact, Lazarey. Their father had wished to secure their identities, due to their Romanov ties.”
Sark looks at her curiously. “You use the past tense - for a different reason?”
“When I discovered the existence of your sister, I searched a bit more, to find her current status - not knowing about the Lazarey connection until recently. I assume you didn’t know either.”
“True. Go on.”
“Aleksandra Rowan was murdered. Without a will, all her shares in the inheritance would pass over to you after Andrian Lazarey’s death.” Making it $800 million total. “There was a dead trail after that. No ideas as to who might have killed her or why.”
“And I suspect, if you had persisted, it might have been traced back to the Covenant. Mere speculation on my part.”
They sit in silence together as the piano plays a few more lines and comes to a finish.
Sark looks thoughtful and almost serious as he rises with his steaming black coffee. “I appreciate it, Ms. Reed, I do. I owe you a favor.” He glances over his shoulder. “Your drink’s been paid for. Good afternoon.”
Lauren gives him an imperceptible but curiously sincere nod.
She watches him as he leaves the café, and, sighing with the knowledge she’ll be here for the next three-quarters of an hour, she turns to watch the piano player, just beginning a new song.
End.