The Catalyst
by Amy, for Cassandre
Sark stared at the fire, the weight of the highball glass pleasant in his hand and tried to lose himself in the rhythm of the rain, the enveloping heat of the fire and the whine of wind dancing through the bare braches of the trees outside his room. He let the smoke and earth taste of the scotch lay heavy in his mouth as he ignored the unopened envelope on the coffee table in front of him.
Just for one night Sark wanted to forget. He didn't want to remember the way Allison lay so still in death, proof that even Milo Rambaldi could not heal a knife-torn heart. He wanted to ignore the demands of the Covenant, Arvin Sloane and that oath he had pledged to Irina Derevko so long ago. Most of all, he wanted to forget who Julian Sark was. Oblivion, just for one night.
But the plain manila envelope, instructions from Arvin Sloane, wouldn't leave him alone. And oblivion was a luxury he could not afford at this stage.
They had met under the steel skies of Oslo earlier in the day, a planned communication between Sloane and the Covenant via their agent. Information had been exchanged and recorded by both Sark and the Covenant operatives watching the meet. At the last possible second, Sloane passed the envelope to Sark. It was a deft maneuver that those watching would never suspect, for they constantly underestimated Sloane and his agenda.
Assuming that he continued to be watched, Sark hadn't opened it on his way back to London. He didn't open it as he pretended to settle into his apartment in South Kensington. He kept it hidden as he left by the delivery entrance dressed in a DHL uniform. And even after checking into a suite at Claridge's under a new alias, he tried to postpone the inevitable.
But now it was time. He stood to add another log to the fire and then reached for the nondescript package. Sark knew he couldn't ignore Sloane's directions any longer. He had a role to play in this game, and he would play it well. And when all went according to plan, he would be free once more.
*~*~*~*~
"Delightful to see you Lauren," he said pleasantly. "May I sit?"
Without waiting for an answer, Sark took the other seat at the small table. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he admired the way she controlled her reaction. She had certainly learned something since their last encounter.
"Don't try anything Ms. Reed," he said in a low voice. "I simply have some information that I want to share with the NSC."
"How did you find me?" she replied, anger coloring her voice. "I'm not working here."
"Clearly," Sark replied. "I didn't think the U.S. Government would put you up at The Connaught. Delightful hotel by the way -- is daddy paying for your stay?"
He smiled as he saw how his first shot hit its mark. He could practically hear her teeth grind as she tried for control.
Sark had read the file provided by Sloane and her weaknesses were clear enough. Daughter of a privileged family, schooled with the wealthy and powerful at Groton and then Brown. Rebelled by taking a job with the NSA. Her ambition blocked effectively by her father's desire to see her protected. In sum, she wanted to prove herself to be more than just the well-bred daughter of a U.S. Senator. And Sark was here to do help her do just that.
"What intel do you want to share Sark?" she finally answered, her gaze not wavering.
"Number 87 Nuñez de Balboa, Madrid."
She sat back in her chair and fingered the moss green Hermes scarf around her throat. Sark watched her movements carefully knowing seduction was another alternative to push her down the planned path. Would she want a careful lover or someone who was rough and passionate? Would she enjoy using that same scarf to bind his writs to the headboard as she kissed and licked him from head to toe?
"Why me?" she asked, interrupting his analysis.
"Let's just say you are in the right place at the right time," Sark lied. She'd never believe the truth anyway; her naïveté was tantamount to blindness.
"Don't lose this opportunity Lauren," he warned as he stood to leave. Then deliberately, he let his fingers brush against the silk of her scarf. "Until next time, Ms. Reed."
*~*~*~*~
Sark poured himself another glass of the Clos Mogador Priorat and waited. His contacts told him she was in Madrid, and if all went as he expected, she would soon call.
He watched the clock patiently and forced his mind to focus. Ten minutes turned into thirty, and he continued to play out the moves in his mind. He was the pivot point between Sloane, the Covenant and Irina Derevko; there could be no mistakes or it would be his life. He planned action and reaction, measures and counter-measures, but it all came down to the catalyst -- the first move was hers.
His phone vibrated lightly on the table and he smiled as he recognized the ID.
"Ms. Reed, what a pleasant surprise --"
end
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