A Gray and Crimson Peace
by Cassandre, for Rez
The figure stretched out on the floor of the cave stirred a little, and Jack tensed. He leaned closer in the firelight -- close enough to see the bruises on the firm, muscled flesh -- but the figure grew still again.
Jack turned away and cursed himself under his breath. A phone call from Irina had brought him to this remote stretch of coast in Scotland, facing the gray expanse of the North Sea. It had taken only a few words, as enigmatic and carefully chosen as always. The promise of knowledge. The prospect of a narrative to fill in the gap of his time in prison, of Sydney's two lost years. He had known from the beginning that it was a fool's errand. And yet, what more valuable Christmas present to offer his daughter, than a few of the missing pieces of her memory? And so, despite his better judgment, he had come.
Irina had been precise about the meeting place. The last-minute flight to Inverness, the drive east along the coastline, had left him weary. Yet as the afternoon hours of waiting on the cliff drifted away, the desolation of the landscape had brought him an unexpected calm. The jagged outline of the rocks, the piercing wind, the dark swathes of sky and waves and sand. It was as if his mind had been turned inside out, and he had found a temporary respite from the burden of thought.
It was nearly 5 PM, after dusk fell, when he had finally glimpsed a cautiously advancing shadow on the cliff. He had known immediately that it was not Irina. What followed had happened quickly: a tussle, a body plummeting through the air onto the rocks below. When Jack had finally picked his way through the darkness, and reached the unconscious figure lying on the sandy ledge, the vision of the face had come as little surprise. One of Sark's legs was twisted awkwardly beneath his body, but he was still alive.
The struggle on the cliff had sent Jack's gear, including transmitter and cell phone, down into the icy water. Not that it mattered -- he preferred to interrogate Sark himself. Shouldering Sark's body roughly, he had dragged him through the drizzling rain to the cave. He would wait for consciousness or daylight, whichever came first.
Under Jack's watchful gaze, Sark was opening his eyes. Expectation flickered over his face; then, at the sight of Jack, an expression that hinted at disappointment, and disappeared as quickly as it had come.
"Agent Bristow." Sark was the first of the two to speak. "An unexpected pleasure." He attempted delicately to move his limbs, winced briefly, and lay still again. His eyes remained alert, and full of life.
"Irina." Jack spat out the word. "She sent you here. Tell me where she is."
"Unfortunately, that is information that I am not in a position to provide."
Jack's fist made contact with the young man's face. "Try."
Sark gasped a little. "Naturally, Agent Bristow, I will debrief you to the best of my ability." Slight pause. "Might I venture to inquire, however, why we have retired to the present locale?"
"This cave is dry," said Jack tersely. "Or at least the back of it. Since I brought you here, the tide came in, and flooded the entrance. Neither of us is going anywhere until morning. And in the morning, if I don't feel like bothering with a bullet and a corpse before breakfast, I'll leave you here. Let the North Sea do my work for me."
"Lovely fire you've made there," commented Sark. "You must have been a champion Boy Scout."
"Or," said Jack, "I could go with the bullet now. You have two seconds. Where is Irina? What does she want?"
"What she wants is simple enough," Sark answered. His tone, although slightly breathless from pain, conveyed equanimity. No ordinary achievement for a person who is lying on his back with a gun pointed at his head, and one or both of whose legs are probably broken, but of Sark, Jack would have expected no less. "She wants the same thing that Arvin Sloane wants. That Rambaldi wanted. Peace."
"I'm not in the mood for games."
"Although it would appear that we have ample time for games," observed Sark coolly. As the gun moved closer to his temple, he sighed a little. "Why are you so reluctant to believe that Irina is seeking peace, for herself and the world? That's her name, after all. From the Greek. Eirene."
Jack snorted. "If the quest for world peace is being spearheaded by Irina Derevko, then humankind must be even worse off than I thought."
The flicker of a grin passed over his prisoner's face. "Well. Perhaps peace isn't the only word for it. Would you prefer stasis? Life brought to a standstill? The complete cessation of activity?"
"Ah, global annihilation. That campaign would be a little more up Irina's alley."
Sark shrugged. "I presume you've heard of Dr. Freud? You say peace, he says death drive. Call it what you like -- it's what makes people want to put a stop to the messiness of life. Their own and other people's. Irina's hardly the only one who wants it." His ironic gaze met Jack's. "Of course, she is one of the only ones who's honest enough to admit it."
An image flashed unbidden into Jack's mind, from the early years of his marriage. Irina reading in the bath, her gaze intently fixed on the pages of her book. She has just finished massaging a red dye into her hair (it must have been one of those periods when her hair was always some shade of auburn?), and a little of the color has crept beyond the hairline, staining the pale skin on her forehead and neck. As he hesitates at the bathroom door, she looks up from her book, and gives him her long, slow smile. She drops the book gently over the edge of the tub, onto the tiles. Then, deliberately, with the smile still on her lips, she lets herself fall back into the water. Her long hair floats around her face, and the water is gradually suffused with a deep crimson. He stands there watching her, and is strangely gripped by the sight. Laura reposing in a bath of blood. At the time, the vision seems uncanny to him because incongruous. Or perhaps not... Her eyes never leave his face. He moves awkwardly over to the bath, and bends toward the dark red water...
Abruptly he returned to the present, and to Sark. "Clearly I haven't provided sufficient incentive for you to answer my questions."
"Listen," said Sark. "I've told you that I don't know where Irina is. Naturally, you're quite at liberty to disbelieve me if you like, and to torture me if it amuses you. As you've observed, we have all night."
Jack was silent.
"But you know," continued Sark reflectively, "you do look rather knackered. Perhaps you should get some sleep. Afraid I'll jump you in the night? Here. Bind my hands or something." He extended his hands upward toward Jack. "The legs, in case you hadn't noticed, are quite useless."
Jack didn't bother to reply. But he was suddenly conscious of an immense fatigue. He was aware that Irina had lured him here, to this chilly corner of the world, and that she had designated Sark to meet him. Yet he was simply too tired to plumb the enigma: to get to the bottom of it all. It could wait until morning.
He took off his belt and bound Sark's hands. He noticed that the man, despite the fire, was shivering, and on a sudden impulse, he picked him up and moved him closer to the flames. Sark flinched and moaned a little when Jack's arms first shifted around him; then, as Jack moved away, his face betrayed an expression of surprise.
"Much appreciated," he mumbled.
When Jack awoke, it was dawn. The fire was reduced to ashes. The tide had gone out, leaving a strip of damp sand and pebbles and seaweed in its wake. The cave walls smelled of wind and salt. An uncertain ray of sunlight gleamed through the gap at the entrance. Sark was asleep, or pretending to be, the belt still around his wrists.
It was time to get in touch with the CIA. Or with someone who could assist in the transport and interrogation of Sark. There was also Sydney; Jack had told her that he had an assignment, but had promised her that he would be home by Christmas.
Jack made his way silently out of the cave and back up the cliffs. In the distance, he could see the faint outline of the little fishing town, with its rows of brightly painted, miniature doorways, and its tidy, eerily barren streets. In a sheltered cove on the road to the town, the rented car was waiting.
He looked down again at the cloudy surf, and remembered again Sark's face the night before, when he had first woken up. The fleeting hint of anticipation.
It came to him then. Sark, too, had been hoping to meet Irina. Sark was not Irina's co-conspirator, but her dupe. Like Jack, he had been fool enough to board a plane and wait by the sea. On the basis of a promise, and a few carefully chosen words.
Jack was sliding down the rocks, his damp coat catching. He was racing across the sand back toward the cave. When he stooped through the narrow gap, he saw that Sark was gone.
END
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