ILLUSIONS

By Rhien Elleth

Los Angeles, California

In her dreams, she always saw his face clearly, clean shaven and handsome, and whole, his blue eyes focused on her with that ever present, underlying intensity. But that was a lie. At the end, his features had been indistinct, his flesh mangled beyond recognition by the things inflicted upon it. Battered, torn, cut, burned. But it wasn't the horrific mask of his death that haunted her nights, even though that image was etched indelibly into her memory; instead, she dreamed of him vibrantly alive, and woke up weeping for what they'd lost.

She'd never told him how she felt. The words had always hung unspoken between them, recognized but never openly acknowledged. When this is over...he used to say, and she would nod and smile, and think about that nebulous time with heart pounding anticipation. When this over, we'll go somewhere, and just be together.

Except now, they never would.

* * * * *

In those first months after his death, she continued moving through her life like an automaton, mechanically, dutifully, silently. She graciously accepted the condolences of friends, colleagues, and her father, who, strangely, understood more than any of the others what she mourned. She continued her work with the CIA, with SD-6. She attended the mandatory grief counseling, but sat nearly silent through each of the sessions, unwilling and unable to talk about how she felt. They assigned her a new handler, of course, and business continued as usual, almost.

Sloane noticed the difference right away, but her father already had an excuse prepared. He was good at that, coming up with excuses for her. It's been a stressful year, a stressful three years.  Sydney hasn't taken much time for herself, away from the job, away from the tragedies that have entered her life.  First Danny, then Noah, then Emily, and Will -- we can't forget Will.

Gradually, she realized that she had to do something. She needed to take control, to find some path out of the listless existence her life had become. She needed closure. The vacation was actually Sloane's suggestion. He called her into his office one afternoon, and assumed that concerned, paternal expression she so abhorred. He offered her a chair, and then sat on his desk right in front of her.  He leaned down and took one of her hands in both of his. His touch repulsed her, but she hid it behind a small smile.

"Sydney," he said quietly. "I think it's time you took a vacation. No," he held up a hand, "don't argue with me. I know you don't think you need one, but I disagree." He smiled. "Everyone needs a break, including people like you and me, even though we don't like to admit it. Take a break. Get away. Don't think about work for a few weeks."

"Weeks?" she asked, incredulous that he would be so generous; he'd always guarded her time jealously. Back when she'd attended school, he'd argued and reprimanded her for having a lack of priorities.

"I know it sounds like a long time, Sydney, but I want you gone for one month. Thirty days. I might be overcompensating, but I want you to come back rejuvenated and ready to work. Right now, your ability to handle stress is…deficient, and I hate to say it, but it's beginning to affect your job performance."

She stiffened, despite herself. She took pride in what she did. SD-6 didn't know her missions for them were actually covert work for the CIA, and that was in part because she performed them so well. Sloane thought every move she made was at his behest, and in his eyes she was a top agent. At least, she had been.

He patted her hand, correctly interpreting her suddenly rigid back and tense jawline.

"Sydney, Sydney -- I don't mean that as a criticism. You just need some time away, that's all. I'm making this decision because you're such a good field agent. I've already spoken to Jack, and he agrees with me. So does Dixon. Now, don't worry. We'll manage without you, somehow. Just try to relax and have a good time."

And as easily as that, she'd been politely forced out of the office.  She made one abortive attempt to argue the matter with her father. Who's going to perform counter missions while I'm gone, Dad? But he'd anticipated her reaction. He, Jack Bristow, was going to partner Dixon in the field during her absence. He'd cleared it with both Sloane and the CIA, which meant he'd managed to get her a forced leave from that job, as well.

He smiled when he told her, "It was actually the psychiatrist's recommendation, not mine."

With nothing more to say, she left, went home, packed a bag, and sat in the darkness for a long time, staring at it. Where could she go? Where did she want to go? Everywhere she'd been, everywhere she could think of, were all places Vaughn had once suggested they revisit together, when all of this was over…

But then, as if thinking of him had triggered it, she suddenly knew exactly where to go. She called the airport, reserved her ticket, and ordered a cab. She made only one stop on her way out of town, a quick meet with Weiss, who came only after she threatened to break into the files and get the information herself, whether or not she got caught and accused of treason.  By the time she was on the plane to Italy, she felt almost alive again. Vital, filled with a purpose. It burned inside of her like a flame relit from long smoldering coals, and she stoked it by reading the files Weiss had reluctantly passed along.

By the time the plane landed, she was more than ready for her vacation.

Rome, Italy

January in Rome was chilly, and low on tourism. As a result, the usually popular Piazza Navona was sparsely populated. Sleepy shopkeepers shuffled about their post-Christmas business with an air of lethargy. Those with business in the piazza, or near it, walked briskly in the cool morning breeze, while the few tourists strolled lazily from one end to the other, stopping to snap photos of the various famous fountains, or to barter over trinkets.

The cell phone rang at precisely one o'clock in the afternoon, and was answered by a perfectly manicured hand, attached to an arm decorated with a Rolex and garbed in Armani.

"Yes?" he asked quietly, keeping two particular "tourists" in his field of vision at all times. He sat at one of the tables in front of a café, sipping a glass of seltzer water with a twist of lemon, because he had to be drinking or eating something to make his presence unremarkable, and it was rather too early in the day to enjoy a glass of wine. The two men he watched had paused before the piazza's most famous fountain, la Fontana dei Fiumi. But they didn't seem as awestruck by Bernini's masterpiece as they ought to have been, for tourists.

"You are ready?" asked the voice on the other end of the line.  Khasinau asked as a matter of form, not because he really doubted the answer.

"Of course," said Sark easily. He spoke in Italian and took a sip of water, just to keep up the illusion of the young business man stopping for a midmorning break amidst the beauty of Rome. "I'll be dealing with them directly."

"Good. It is best to get our message across now, and clearly. It must be swift, and obvious. This is not a time for subtlety." Khasinau only repeated everything Sark already knew, but the younger man listened patiently.

He would have liked to wait, and deal with this after nightfall, when the people strolling by were not so alert, and things were not so illuminated by the sun. But that would not do.  Khasinau wanted boldness. He wanted their rivals to be properly shocked, properly chastised for their foolish interferences. Besides, he had another errand to accomplish tonight, after dark. Another message to send.

"Right," he said, his tone clipped and professional. "I'll call you when it's done."

His answer was the soft click of the phone hanging up, and he flipped the cell phone closed before sliding it back inside his jacket pocket. He waited a moment, watching the two men stand nervously by the fountain, trying to look as if they were tourists reading from A Visitor's Walking Guide to Rome, which one of them held open. They weren't very good at illusion. One of the two kept glancing around expectantly, while the other continually dropped his hand to finger the gun he obviously had holstered beneath his jacket. Stupid, thought Sark contemptuously. It was hard to believe that these two men had actually interfered with Khasinau's business, that they'd mucked up not just the Man's operations, but also the Alliance's business, and the American CIA. Not alone, of course. They'd had help, and guidance far superior to their own meager capabilities. Their deaths would hardly make a ripple in the pool of players involved in this game, and yet would still send a message loud and clear to those who controlled them: get out while you can, before we come after you.

For just a moment, Sark considered holding off, waiting to see who they were expecting to meet. But his curiosity was short lived, buried by the irritation and impatience he felt at having to deal with them at all. He was bored with the morning, and more than ready to move on to other things.  Besides, whoever they were meeting didn't really matter. He took one last sip of water, and as he set the glass down, very deliberately reached up with his other hand and smoothed his fingers down the length of his silk tie. 

Two shots rang out, so close together that the sound of the high caliber rounds being fired melded into one echoing report. Both men dropped, felled by the sniper who'd patiently awaited Sark's signal for half the morning. Blood sprayed the famous fountain, droplets raining into the water pooled at its base, and turning it slightly pink. By the time the bodies had finished falling, Sark was already up and gone, his long strides carrying him quickly down the street, and past the shopkeepers and tourists just now beginning to realize that something was wrong. He kept his pace casual, his eyes on the financial papers he held before him, as if so engrossed as to be unaware of his surroundings.

Later, few witnesses remembered him, and those who did never connected him to the two murdered men.

Grand Hotel Plaza, Rome

Sydney never would have chosen the prestigious accommodations of the Grand Hotel Plaza on her own. She never could have afforded the room at summer rates, but January was slow, and even a five star hotel tried its best to lure tourism with special deals. She checked in using her usual travel alias, mostly out of habit, and a little out of paranoia. Even on "vacation", she couldn't bring herself to use her real name.  It seemed too out in the open, too vulnerable. So Kate Jones checked into the Plaza at roughly three in the afternoon, after a long, but informative flight from L.A. She'd practically memorized the file taken from Weiss. She knew the names, at least, by heart. Five of them. One, the presumed orchestrator of the little group, was staying here, or had been two days ago.

She sat in the hotel's restaurant briefly, acquainting herself with faces, and practicing her Italian on the wait staff. Since she was traveling as an American, they complimented her on her surprisingly flawless accent. Sydney smiled in return.

"Il ringrazia lei," she said to the rather charmingly handsome young waiter. Thank-you. She asked him for a paper to read, and he obliged her with an evening edition. She was just taking a sip of the red wine her server had recommended – she'd justified the indulgence to herself by the simple reminder that she was on vacation – when the front page article, complete with color photos, caught her eye. She nearly choked.

Blood in the Streets of the Piazza Navona

Two men shot to death at la Fontana dei Fiumi

The names of the men matched two of the names in her file. Two of the men responsible for Vaughn's death were now dead, murdered. And not by her. She wasn't sure, for a moment, whether she was alarmed, or furious.  She felt as though someone had stolen her right to vengeance.

She read the article twice, carefully, but the police seemed baffled.  The men were not native, but tourists visiting the piazza that morning. They'd been killed by a sniper, with single shots each. Professional, Sydney thought. Quick, neat, probably untraceable. She folded the paper and stuffed it into her purse, suddenly filled with an urgency to be up, investigating the man presumably staying here. The hotel staff wouldn't confirm his presence as a guest, but Sydney knew the room number from the file. If she could help it, she was damn well going to make sure that no one else beat her to him.  

An hour later, she had dropped off most of her belongings in her room, changed from the tailored business suit and heels into a snug, dark gray body suit that would blend well with the hotel's stone surface, and equipped herself with climbing cable and the compact Beretta 9mm acquired directly after landing, from one of the CIA's local caches.  They'd miss it, but she planned to dispose of the incriminating thing at sea as soon as she was finished with it.

She used the hotel's famous terraces for her purpose. She'd requested her specific room for the simple reason that it was positioned two terraces away from Viktor Rastus. She didn't allow herself to think much as she prepared. If she thought too much about what she was doing, she might break down, fail to accomplish her goal, and that could not be allowed. She needed to do this; needed so desperately to free herself from Vaughn's ghost.  She still saw his face nearly every time she closed her eyes, still woke up tasting the salt of tears. She needed absolution.

* * * * *

Sark knew Viktor Rastus was drunk, because he'd been watching him in the bar for the last two hours, drinking like the proverbial fish. For himself, Sark nursed two glasses of Bordeaux from a bottle priced at over seven hundred dollars, and considered his time well enjoyed, if not well spent. While he watched Rastus finally stumble away to his room, he asked his server to cork the bottle and keep it behind the counter to pick up later.  No sense letting so fine a vintage go to waste.

Then he stood up, neatly adjusted his suit, and followed. He joined the weaving, drunken man on the same elevator, watching as he swayed dangerously on his feet. With a scowl, Sark hoped the man wasn't going to vomit; the stench would be irritating, and the mess displeasing. He followed at a trailing distance as Rastus made his slow, ponderous way down the corridor to his room, waiting until the door clicked softly shut, and counting silently to ten before bending to pick the lock.  This was really too easy; almost easier, in fact, than the shooting in the piazza. If he was fortuitous, the unfortunate man would be passed out on his bed by now. If not, well, the rooms of this pricey hotel were soundproofed for the convenience of the guests – even the windows, unless they were open. Sark made a mental note to check that upon entering.

But as he eased open the door, he got the shock of his life.

* * * * *

Sydney waited in the gray-on-gray shadows of the darkened room, her figure obscured by the fall of curtains beside the terrace doors.  She'd already made a quick search of Rastus' belongings, but gained little enough in the effort. Just the usual travel kit, clothes, and an unusually large roll of money in various currency. She wondered if he knew, yet, about his murdered colleagues.

She waited in the dark, and tried not to see Vaughn's face, or hear his voice. She didn't want to think about what he'd say to her at this moment. She thought maybe of everyone she knew, her father would understand.  There was a coldness to Jack Bristow at times, that chilled her.

When she heard the muffled fumbling at the door latch, she took out her Beretta, and calmly waited. Viktor Rastus stumbled inside, barely managing not to trip on the plush entry rug, or his own feet, and almost leaving the door wide open to the hallway before suddenly remembering to shut it. He was muttering to himself in Italian. Apparently, he did know about the death of his friends, and he blamed someone named Mariknikauff for their deaths. Interesting. Sydney filed the name away for later use, and stepped out of hiding. She felt filled with a kind of empty resolve as she lifted the gun, sighted down the barrel. She wondered if, after this, she would start to feel again. If the bitter numbness would go away.

"Viktor Rastus," she heard her voice say, with that cold flatness she assumed sometimes.

"Hunh…?" he managed to grunt, blinking at her through bleary eyes as he stood swaying in the center of the room. "Who – who are you? What are you doing in my room?" His eyes seemed to finally focus on the gun. "You've come to kill me?" A dry laugh escaped him, and he nearly fell, catching himself on the edge of the king size bed. "Please," he said with a lopsided shrug, "just make it quick."

Sydney's vision seemed to narrow in focus, until all she could see was this pathetic, slightly overweight man, reeking of gin and sweat as he half stood, drunkenly indifferent, at the end of her gun. Her lips thinned. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He should have stood some kind of chance, had some flash of warning to attempt to defend himself. He shouldn't, above all, have welcomed her presence, and the death she carried with her.  But even realizing his helplessness, she couldn't drench up an attack of conscience. She remembered too well the burns on Michael Vaughn's face and body, and the notation in this man's file for his skills in interrogation. Her hands remained steady.

"You should never have tortured and killed Michael Vaughn," she said firmly. "He should never have died like that."

Rastus laughed again, and this time it carried a cruel edge.

"All men die, Agent Bristow." She flinched at his use of her name, and wondered suddenly how he'd recognized her, how he knew her, and when he'd realized who she was. She was reasonably sure she'd never seen him before in her life. "The means matter not at all, for in the end we are all the same," he continued, sounding remarkably sober for a man who couldn't properly stand.

He spread his hands in unspoken invitation. Her arms were beginning to tremble from holding the gun.  It wasn't the most natural position, and no matter how light the weapon, or how in shape she was, she wouldn't be able to maintain it forever. Yet, she could almost hear Vaughn's voice in her head. You do this, Syd, and you cross a line you can never back away from. You're murdering an unarmed man.

She carefully tried to block the voice out, ignored it when she failed. She never blinked. When she spoke, her voice was a broken whisper. "I'm doing this for you."

And she fired the gun. Once.  Twice. Three times, into the body of Viktor Rastus.

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